Reports of a Lover's Tryst
by CharWright5
Summary: NY Met Derek Hale was riding the high of being his team's hero, only to have it come crashing down the next day when pictures leak of him acting more than friendly with his roommate Stiles Stilinski. Not only is he outed before he wanted, but he's also a target for more harassment & suddenly single after accusations fly over how the media found out about his secret relationship.
1. Part 1

_**A/N: **__Rated for language, explicit sex, and homophobic slurs._

_My entry for the 2015 Sterek Big Bang over on LiveJournal. Art is linked on my own journal, username PBsAlienGirl.  
>First of all, shout-out to my bestie Nath for being pretty much amazing and beta-ing this within, like, a weekend. And for also putting up with my usual whines and complaints and bitching when it comes to my writing and for also being the best Scott any Stiles could ever ask for. Second shout-out goes to my amazing artists: Xa and Tasha. Thank you both, ladies, for picking my fic and creating art for it. Means a lot. Third and final shout-out goes to my dad (although he'll never see this) for instilling in me a love of baseball and the Metsies. Oh, and of course, a shout-out to the Mods over at the Sterek Big Bang for hosting such a great Big Bang and for giving me an excuse to write over 30K of baseball related porn and angst starring one of my OTPs. :)<em>

_I own nothing in this fic except for the idea. _Teen Wolf_ and its characters are property of Jeff Davis and MTV; I just borrowed them and made them do other stuff as I saw fit. The New York Mets are property of Major League Baseball and the Wilpons (unfortunately). I use the name with love. _Mets Extra_ is property of SNY and, I believe, in turn, property of the NY Mets itself. Strawberry's Bar and Grill is property of Daryl Strawberry (I'm pretty sure) and is also referenced with love. Citi Field is property of CitiBank and is used by the NY Mets in reality and me with the name. The awards and accolades mentioned in this part are property of whoever owns them. Fic title from _The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows_ by Brand New. Anything else is property of whatever else. And Linkin Park are GODS!_

* * *

><p>"<em>Now batting: shortstop, number four, Dereeeek Ha-ale!<em>"

Citi Field erupted at the public address announcer's declaration, the ballpark filled with a cacophonous symphony of applause, cheers, screams, and whistles, all drowning out the familiar chugging riffs of Linkin Park's _Wretches and Kings_.

Derek blocked out the noise, a skill he'd adapted after five years in the bigs. Now, in his twenty-eighth year on Earth, he was a major piece of the New York Mets organization, a Gold Glove and Silver Slugger award winner, former Rookie of the Year, three-time All Star, and a huge fan favorite. And while he liked to think the thunderous applause was because the crowd recognized that the opening riffs of his walk-up song meant he was now making his way to the batter's box, he figured it probably had more to do with the situation.

Nodding at the ump and opposing catcher, he tried everything in his power not to think about what was happening in the game, about how the cliché fantasy of every baseball player from little league on up was playing out before him.

Two outs. Bottom of the ninth. Bases loaded. Home team down by a run.

Only this was Opening Day, not game seven of the World Series.

Still, it was a pressure filled spot that he once again found himself in.

God, he loved this game.

Cracking his neck, Derek stood in the left-handed batter's box, digging his foot into a well-worn hole. He got into his stance, eyes narrowed in focus as he stared at the opposing pitcher.

The wind-up.

The pitch.

Ball outside.

He stepped out the box with one foot, looked towards the dugout for his signs as he swung the bat about, keeping loose. Derek knew his part, knew not to do anything too fancy or try to be a hero. Just get on base through any means, whether a hit or a walk, didn't matter. Because with the bases full of Mets, there was nowhere to put him without the tying run scoring.

Getting set once more, he waited on the next pitch.

Ball two.

Derek fully stepped back, adjusted the straps on his batting gloves, cracked his neck again. He scanned the field, noting Lahey at third, Whittemore on second, Boyd at first. Lahey had hit a double, Whittemore walked, Boyd put on intentionally, an out recorded between each man who reached base.

Now Derek was up as the Mets' last chance of at least tying.

A well placed single could possibly bring in Whittemore. The guy was speedy, if not cocky as fuck.

Back in the box, Derek swung at the next pitch, bat swooping over a breaking ball that dodged out the way at the last second.

Shit.

After mentally regrouping, he watched the next pitch miss outside. Knowing the closer needed a strike, he swung at a fastball, sending it into the seats over the visiting team's dugout, a little late in his timing.

Three-two count.

Definitely a cliché.

Derek stood outside the batter's box, practiced his swing, adjusted his glove straps, cracked his neck. He tuned out all the claps, the chants, the cheers. He ignored the situation and the pressure. He forgot about the pageantry of Opening Day and how they needed to start the season on a good note for the sake of the fans.

He thought about getting on base, about being one pitch away from a walk, about how he refused to let his teammates down or let McCall's one-hit complete game go to waste.

Feeling back in the zone, he stepped into the box, got in his stance, and focused.

Everything seemed to fade away, his entire world zeroed in on the pitcher, all other things going fuzzy. Time seemed to slow down as Derek watched the pitcher pull his arm back then throw it forward, ball flying out his hand towards the batter.

Derek lifted the back of his foot, tapped it down in a much-used method of keeping time. Not that it was needed. It felt as though he had the rest of eternity before the ball would reach home plate, that there was no need to rush anything.

The slo-mo continued as he swung the bat, arms straight, head down so he could keep the ball in his line of sight. Years of practice, endless hours in the cage and on the field, countless instructions and tutorials and tips, it all lead up to that moment, to the perfect angle of the bat and line of his body.

Time returned to normal speed when he made contact, when the crack of the bat hitting the ball reached his ears. The white leather sailed over the infield, his teammates watching its flight, already in motion themselves.

Which really...

Derek dropped his bat before turning on his feet and hightailing it to first. The right fielder was running towards the wall, eyes focused up at the ball flying across the late afternoon sky. But Derek wasn't paying any attention to it, to anything. He was barely aware of the crowd's roar, barely aware of Lahey heading home, barely aware of the fielder running out of room, reaching the fence...

Of the ball smacking against the Pepsi sign on the second deck for a long home run.

For a _game-winning grand slam_.

Citi Field exploded, the roar of the crowd now impossible to ignore, having reached deafening levels. His fellow Mets burst out the dugout, some jumping over the fence, all crowding around home plate, high-fiving those who scored.

Derek threw a fist in the air as he rounded first, making sure he stepped on the bag as he went. He slowed to a jog, huge grin on his face, adrenaline pumping through his system. His first career grand slam, and it was of the walk-off variety, helping his team win the first game of the season.

Only a hundred-sixty-one to go.

Rounding third, he slipped his batting helmet off and tossed it in the air, completely uncaring about where it landed. He jumped up, landing on home plate and immediately being swarmed by his teammates. His head was slapped, back pounded, hair ruffed, ass smacked. He felt himself being jostled about inside the makeshift mosh pit, his jersey pulled out his pants, the first couple buttons undone. The roughhousing was sure to give him a few new bruises but it would all be worth it in the end.

After all, they'd won the fucking game.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, Derek found himself at Strawberry's Bar and Grill, surrounded by his teammates and countless drinks, not including the beer McCall had shoved in his hand the second Derek had sat down.<p>

"I owe you," the pitcher insisted, staring at him in a way that was pure puppy dog, all brown eyes and total earnestness.

Derek rolled his eyes, accepting the drink nonetheless. "The only hit you allowed over nine innings was a solo shot in the first. Pretty sure you don't own anyone shit."

McCall snorted then opened his mouth to argue, only to be cut off by someone yelling out a "Scott!" And judging by the way his entire face lit up and a huge goofy grin formed, the shortstop had a damn good idea who had called for his teammate's attention.

Turning his head, Derek soon discovered he was right, finding McCall's girlfriend Allison making her way over. Her dark hair bounced around her shoulders as she worked on unbuttoning her black trench, huge smile on her face displaying two deep dimples, pride shining in brown eyes. Derek could hear her delighted squeals over the drone of countless conversations, over the music playing in the background, turning away as she latched onto her boyfriend and hugged him tight.

'Course giving that couple their own privacy during their reunion meant he was able to see all the other pairings in his team: Whittemore with his ginger-haired girl Lydia, Boyd and his blonde fiancée Erica, Lahey with a petite Asian named Kira. Hell, glancing around, he could see that damn near everyone had paired up, either with a female they were actually in a relationship with, or one they were hoping to spend the night with. And even those without a romantic partner or groupie were paired up and chatting—loudly—about anything and everything. Derek seemed to be the only one not with someone.

Well, at least he had his beer, he thought with a shrug, putting the bottle to his lips and tipping it back.

"Hey, man!"

Or maybe he wasn't as alone as he thought.

The sound of a familiar male's voice had the corner of his mouth turning up, hidden behind the lip of the bottle. Stiles.

Hands clamped down on his shoulders, jostling him about, and he had to pull the beer away before he smacked the glass against his lips or teeth and hurt himself. But his smile grew, knowing the shaking meant Stiles was happy, stoked, proud, and that he was showing those emotions through physicality—pretty much the only way he knew how.

"_Awesome_ game!" he cheered louder than necessary before releasing the player and sliding down onto the stool next to him at the table. "That slam at the end? Holy shit!"

Derek put his beer on the table, feeling the tips of his ears heat up, ducking his head to hide his embarrassment. "Not that big a deal," he murmured, getting shoved for his statement.

"Fuck that! Dude, that was a _huge_ deal! You won the fuckin' game! MV-fucking-P right here."

"Hey!" McCall objected from somewhere behind Derek and the shortstop could imagine the kicked puppy look he was currently sporting.

"And you, too, Scotty," Stiles added, reaching over to fist bump his childhood best friend. The two started a discussion over McCall's pitching performance that day, Allison joining in with her usual pride-filled comments, making her boyfriend's goofy grin grow into something even dumber.

Derek let their conversation wash over him, turning to face the threesome, mind running over how they'd all reached that place. Stiles had grown up with McCall, the pitcher drafted right outta high school. And while McCall had headed off to the Arizona Fall League, Stiles had headed to New York for college, eventually being introduced to Derek after his best friend had made his major league debut two years later.

Allison had come into the picture only a few months prior, currently interning at her grandfather's agency, McCall and Derek being two of their clients. McCall had shown up for a meeting and had left with stars in his eyes and a belief that Allison was the reason why the sun shone all the time. Derek figured shit had to be awkward, dating the granddaughter of the guy who owned the company that represented you, but he didn't exactly have room to diss anyone's romantic situation.

With that, he let his eyes drift over to Stiles, who was busy talking animatedly, hands flailing, voice too loud, eyes wide, his only way of communicating really. Derek took in the sparkle in whiskey colored eyes, the way his lashes seemed too long, tawny hair spiked up in every direction, most likely having been pulled on in frustration during the game. His pale skin was littered with moles, cupid's bow lips stretched into a grin, cheeks slightly reddened from the sun that day.

'Course the idiot wouldn't have put sunscreen on. He never fucking learned. Didn't matter that Derek had left the stuff in front of the coffee maker before he left for the stadium, sticky note with "_USE IT_" in block letters taped onto the bottle.

"What?"

Derek snapped out of his revery, shaking his head to get with the program, muttering out a "what?" of his own.

"You're staring, dude," Stiles pointed out, smirking in a way that conveyed he found it both creepy and endearing. "Why?"

The shortstop wanted to say it was because he just flat out liked looking at the guy, that he loved studying the contours of his face and the minute twitches of his eyes and lips, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life learning every inch of him and then relearn it over and over and over again.

But he couldn't. Because as far as anyone else on the team—with the sole exception of McCall—knew, Derek and Stiles were just roommates, that the college student was living with the athlete while at school because it was convenient and cheap and staying with his childhood best friend and girlfriend was just weird and uncomfortable. No one knew Derek and Stiles were a couple, because no one even knew Derek was bi.

The two had met at a gathering similar to one they were currently at, one that had taken place after McCall's major league debut, a game the Mets had also won. Derek had homered, a two-run shot that added to their lead and put the Marlins away for good that day, helping them also win the three-game series. Stiles had approached Derek and laid it on thick, stating that home run hitters get blow jobs. The athlete had taken him up on that offer, the two returning to his loft and spending most of the night fucking.

The next day, after Stiles had made them both breakfast, he'd admitted he honestly didn't think his line would work and that he had no clue Derek would've even gone for it—or him. Derek then admitted to being bi, but not ready to come out, although he wanted to keep seeing Stiles. The student had returned the sentiment, the two starting a secret relationship with the younger man willing to wait for the older to be comfortable enough to go public with his sexuality.

Two years later, the couple were living together and happier than Derek could've ever imagined. He still wasn't ready to come out, but Stiles understood and remained by his side no matter what, going along with the charade that they were just roommates and buddies and that was all.

That didn't mean things were perfect between them and that they didn't have moments where they fought. And then there were times where Derek could just tell that Stiles wanted them to be out, that he wanted them to be like McCall and Allison, Boyd and Erica, Whittemore and Lydia, that he could drape himself all over his boyfriend and brag about what a great game he played and how amazing he was and everything else all the girls said to their athletic men. And while Derek wanted that, too, he just couldn't quite bring himself to come out yet. Because it was scary as hell, despite having an amazing support system behind himself. Because coming out to friends and family who loved and accepted you no matter what was one thing; coming out to a world that only cared about how you played your last game, where your value was measured in RBIs, slugging percentages, and fielding range, where your job required you to be tough and a hardass and a "real man", it was a totally different thing.

A much bigger, much _scarier_ thing.

So he kept his sexuality hidden until he felt he was ready for it to be out there. Although he had no clue when that would be or what exactly would need to happen in order to make him comfortable enough to be out. He just figured he'd know it when the time came.

Shrugging his shoulder, he ran a hand through his black hair, feeling the water still clinging to the strands from his post-game shower. "Just never seen that before," he muttered out the lie, pointing to the blue jersey Stiles was currently sporting.

The younger man let out a confused "huh?" before looking down at himself, smoothing the cotton out and putting the "_Mets_" script logo on full display—along with the number 4 on the left side. "Oh. Got it today during the game," he explained, grin on his face as he looked up and met green eyes. "Figured we needed a rally so I bought it." He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal, like he hadn't drop a hundred bucks on something at the spur of the moment, before stealing one of Derek's shots and downing it.

Derek cocked at eyebrow at the explanation, not really caring about the drink that'd been stolen. He hadn't really ever been one for liquor anyway, only ever taking the shots when he was forced. Most of the time his teammates drank them for him, not wanting to waste free booze.

"Most people buy a cap," he pointed out, bringing his beer near his lips but not drinking yet. "Ya know, a _rally cap_, not a rally jersey."

Stiles scoffed, rolling his eyes and stealing another shot. "Losers. Clearly lacking imagination." He paused to tip the drink into his mouth, making a face at the bad taste of it. "Tequila, yech," he commented before going back to his original point. "Besides, I'd like to point out that after I bought my new _rally jersey_, we _rallied_ and won, so nyeh." He concluded his argument with the highly mature move of sticking out his tongue and making a noise.

Derek just rolled his eyes and took a long drink from his beer, wondering how and why he'd managed to fall in love with someone who was essentially a tall child. But then someone brought up Derek's grand slam and Stiles peered at him out the corner of his eyes, the same pride that had been in Allison's brown orbs shining in his, a bragging smirk hidden behind a shot glass, and then the shortstop knew exactly why he was in total and complete love with this guy.

And that was never gonna change.

* * *

><p>Derek nursed his beer for as long as possible, giving in to McCall's insistences that he have a second. Stiles quit stealing his shots, settling for a plain cola and sipping from it, all the while chatting with the other members of their group. But as the night wore on, the shortstop noticed a change in his boyfriend, realized he had grown quieter, the light in his eyes dimming, his grin not quite as wide or as genuine.<p>

It didn't take Derek long to figure out why, considering how Stiles' eyes kept lingering on all the couples, on the way Lydia was draped all over Whittemore, on how cuddly McCall and Allison were, on Erica and Boyd returning from the bathroom with rumpled clothes and smudged red lipstick. It was clear the younger man was none too happy with having to hold back on his own PDA, despite countless teammates and random fans congratulating Derek on being the hero of the game.

Shit.

Drinking deep from his second beer, Derek wondered why exactly it was that they had to hide everything, only to remember the exact reasons. Because pro-sports apparently weren't the place for homosexuals—figure skating notwithstanding. Because he was heckled and harassed at visiting ballparks enough without the added discrimination over his sexuality. Because gay slanders were already thrown at him by ignorant haters who took his lack of New York playboy status to mean he was batting for the other team.

And, yeah, technically, that was true, but still. He wasn't gonna give any of those assholes more fodder to throw at him whenever he dug in at Philly or Atlanta or whatever other stadium full of smack-talking fanatics.

He placed the bottle back on the table, picking at the edge of the label as his head hung. God, he was a dick. Stiles was so open, so caring, free with love and hugs and proclamations of how much he adored someone, no matter the extent of those feelings. Yet Derek was forcing the guy to remain closeted and keep quiet on their relationship, on their love. Behind the door of their shared apartment, the hugs were free-flowing and frequent, the words "forever" and "soul mate" and "the One" thrown around and meant every time they were used. But in public, all of that had to be kept inside, Derek wincing at so much as a shoulder bump for fear someone would notice and think the action was from a place that was more than just friendly. And keeping everything hidden from the world was obviously taking a toll on Stiles, had been for a while, and it was showing again that evening. But Derek was still making them keep their relationship on the downlow, all because he was too chickenshit to come out.

And Stiles, sweet, wonderful, amazing, understanding Stiles went along with it, despite how much he obviously hated it and how much it was clearly wearing him down.

Derek didn't deserve him. But he was determined to spend the rest of his life making it up to his boyfriend and show him that everything he was going through was appreciated and would be worth it in the end.

At least, the athlete hoped it would be.

Draining the remnants of his beer, Derek tapped Stiles' on the shoulder, waiting for the other man to turn his head to him before speaking.

"I'm getting tired," he lied, honestly just needing an excuse. And really, it seemed like Stiles could use one, too, could use a reason to get away from the crowd and his slowly diminishing good mood. Claiming exhaustion after a game was pretty damn plausible, especially after the stress induced one they'd just been through. "Wanna head home?"

Stiles nodded, taking several deep gulps of his soft drink before depositing the glass on the table. Goodbyes were exchanged all around, Derek getting more pats on the back and "good game"s, teammates all stating they'd see him in a couple days for game two. With a final wave at the group, he and Stiles made their way out the bar and towards the shortstop's Camaro.

The purchase of the sports car had turned into a question of his sanity by his older sister Laura, who didn't see the point of owning your own vehicle when living in New York. But Derek liked the freedom of having it, liked not having to rely on subways or taxis when heading to the stadium or back home. Trains broke down, cabs were damn near impossible to get at times, and he always preferred to show up to practice early rather than on time. Having the Camaro allowed him the opportunity to arrive when he wanted and not be late for anything.

Plus it was convenient as hell to just get in and drive off when wanting to escape his teammates and fans.

Not that he hated the fans, because he didn't. But sometimes he just wanted to be left alone and not have to deal with a whole bunch of random strangers asking if he was _the_ Derek Hale of the New York Mets and holy shit, can I have an autograph/ picture/ hug/ your phone number? The first three always got a "sure" and a fulfilled request. The last one had only been followed through once and it was given to the guy currently sitting silently in his passenger seat, chewing his thumbnail as his leg bounced up and down and his eyes focused on the city outside the side window.

Derek reached over and took Stiles' free hand in his, linking their fingers on top of the gear shift. Brown doe eyes flipped over to him, small smile forming as he squeezed the shortstop's hand, not minding the callouses from years of ball handling and working out.

"Sorry," the athlete stated, sighing softly with his eyes focused out the windshield, feeling a thumb absently rub over the back of his hand.

"For holding my hand?" Stiles' voice was genuinely confused, thumbnail still being chewed on, eyebrows creased together.

"For back at the bar," Derek began, pulling to a stop at a red light. "I know it's gotta suck not being able to be open and affectionate like everyone else and—"

"Hey," the younger man interrupted, jostling their joined hands in order to make the other look at him. Derek did just that, noting the openness on Stiles' face, the earnest look in his eyes, the seriousness of his words reflected on his face. "It's fine. I told you back when we first got together that I was fine with keeping this quiet and that if shit ever changed, I'd tell you. And considering I haven't said anything, obviously nothing's change."

"Just because you don't say it doesn't mean you don't feel it."

Stiles see-sawed his head, conceding the point, before meeting green eyes with his whiskey ones. "How 'bout you just trust me when I say I'm fine with the way things are and we drop it?"

Derek sighed once again, turning to the front when the light changed to green. Shifting his foot from the brake to the gas, he nodded, deciding to just go along with it. But that guilt at forcing Stiles to do something he didn't want to was still gnawing at him, still making him feel like a dick for affecting his boyfriend's happiness in such a negative way.

"And just so you know," Stiles spoke up when the older man remained quiet. "I am so jumping your ass the second we get home."

The shortstop breathed out a swear at the mental image that statement created, imagining the younger man literally pouncing on him in a rush to get naked and get fucked, the two celebrating the team's win—and Derek's grand slam—the way they always did: with lots and lots of sex.

Stiles giggled wickedly, huge shit-eating grin plastered on his face as he turned to look out the windshield, clearly pleased with himself over the effect he had on his boyfriend. Derek hid his smirk, squeezing the younger man's hand a little too tight as payback, continuing the drive to their apartment building.

* * *

><p>Derek's building featured its own underground parking deck, each resident given an assigned space. He parked his Camaro alongside Stiles' clunker of a Jeep—which really had no business being in NYC but the younger man was too attached to leave it back home in California—killing the engine before getting out, his boyfriend following suit. After making sure his car was locked, the two made their way to the elevators, Derek hitting the '<em>UP<em>' button before being forced to wait.

Out the corner of his eye, he noticed Stiles glancing around, head turning this way and that, seeming to be searching for something. Derek cocked an eyebrow, giving the other guy a questioning look, wondering what the hell he was doing exactly.

It was an expression he wore often around his boyfriend.

"Stiles," he began calmly, evenly, waiting until the mentioned male made a noise of acknowledgment to show he was listening. "What're you doing?"

The younger man still didn't look at him, eyes continuing to roam the place, hands in the pockets of his jeans as though he was just casually hanging about and not visually assessing the place like a paranoid freak.

Then again, considering he was a sheriff's kid, he probably had been searching for threats, raised to be hyper-vigilant and constantly aware of his surroundings, especially in a place as big as New York.

"Checking the coast is clear."

Nailed it.

Derek's eyebrow lowered, joining the other in a confused frown. "Why?"

"So I can do this."

The athlete didn't get a chance to question his boyfriend again; Stiles had grabbed his face and smashed their lips together.

An entire evening of tamping down urges and ignoring desires came rushing as Derek returned the kiss with equal ferocity, wrapping an arm around the leaner male and hauling him in close. He kissed him for every bragging comment Stiles'd had to bite back, for every touch they'd wanted to give, for every small peck to one another's lips they'd had to resist. Witnessing all those couples and their PDA had triggered something in Derek, a need to be just as affectionate with his own romantic partner. But he couldn't.

Until that moment.

Because now they were alone in that parking deck and he had Stiles to himself, allowing him to be open and free with the physicality. And after holding back during that hour in the bar, he was gonna make up for lost time.

Derek soon found himself pushed up against the wall beside the elevator, Stiles' lips at his throat, nibbling at his pulse point hard enough to be felt but soft enough to not leave a mark. It was a skill he'd perfected, a necessary one considering the gossip hounds in the Mets clubhouse, and the athlete loved him for it.

The shortstop got lost in the sensations, eyes closed and head tilted back to give his boyfriend more skin to play with. He cupped the younger man's ass, pulling him even closer, their similar heights allowing their groins to line up. He could feel the hardening bulge of his boyfriend right on his own, his hips bucking in response and causing them both to groan. Stiles' pelvis didn't hesitate to grind right back, teeth dragging along a collarbone exposed by Derek's v-neck tee.

Mind gone, all Derek could focus on was getting his boyfriend naked and opened, hand slipping inside the leaner man's boxers. He was totally oblivious to where they were, why he should be holding back, all the blood draining from his brain to his cock, the throbbing organ rapidly plumping. He slid a finger between two cheeks, rubbing against the hole he was dying to be in, mind still functioning enough to know not to push in dry.

Stiles' head raised on a gasp, meeting Derek's eyes, his pupils blown. His mouth hung open, lips parted in an invitation Derek could never turn down, connecting their lips. His tongue slid inside the younger man's mouth, being met with another, the two tangling in well-practiced motions. He swallowed moans as his finger circled and rubbed Stiles' entrance, pushing but never entering.

Derek felt as though his skin was on fire as arousal rushed through his veins, his entire world zeroed in on the guy pressed against him.

Which meant that the ding that signaled the elevator's arrival scared the crap out of him.

Okay, maybe not _scared_, but definitely shocked and surprised him.

He wasn't sure who broke the kiss, only knew that it ended. Stiles stared at the elevator looking stupefied, looking like he was just as dazed as Derek felt. The shortstop made the move, slipping his hand out his boyfriend's pants and grabbing the front of his jersey before dragging him onto the elevator.

"Hey!" the student objected, brows furrowed in displeasure. "Easy on the merch."

Derek hit the button for their floor with more force than necessary, scowling at the panel like it was its fault he lived on the twelfth story. "I'll buy you another," he grumbled, voice now carrying the distinct husky tone of arousal.

Stiles smirked, whiskey eyes twinkling in the fluorescent lights above them. "I'm sure it's fine," he argued. "Just wrinkled." As if to prove it really wasn't a big deal, he began smoothing his hand over the fabric covering his chest. But all Derek could focus on were those long fingers and large palms and the memory of how good they felt on his own body—especially his cock.

Then he started thinking about the jersey itself, mainly the name stitched into the back of it. It hit something possessive inside of him, some caveman need to claim and show the entire world who exactly Stiles belonged to.

A devious grin spread across his face, a dimple deepening beneath a month's worth of stubble. "Yeah, but I'm gonna fuck you in it, so it'll most likely get covered in come."

Stiles' own smirk grew as he stepped closer, the shortstop grabbing his jersey again and hauling him in the final three steps. "Kinky."

A brief chuckle was Derek's only response, kissing his boyfriend hard. His hands moved down, slipping under the younger man's jersey and resting on his hips, thumbs laying along the line separating his pelvis from his legs. Their tongues tangled once more, the shortstop feeling his being sucked on in what was hopefully a preview of what was to come.

For the second time in as many minutes, Derek got lost in the kiss, something that seemed to happen a lot with Stiles. It was like the rest of the world completely disappeared and the only thing that existed was the man in his arms. Probably pretty dangerous, but like everything else at that moment, Derek just couldn't bring himself to care.

The elevator slowed to a stop, letting out a ding as it reached their designated floor, effectively ending their make-out session once again. The couple stepped back from one another, Stiles smoothing down his jersey again, Derek clearing his throat before cupping his hands in front of himself. Probably drew more attention to his erection than hid it, but whatever. Made him feel better at least.

Although judging by the smirk his boyfriend wore, it was clearly pointing it out more than anything else.

The doors slid open and Derek stuck his head out, peering into the hallway and checking the coast was clear. Both sides of the corridor were devoid of life, doors all closed, not a single soul to be found.

Thank. God.

He grabbed hold of the younger man's hand before practically dragging him down the hallway, not pausing until they reached their door. Stiles already had his keys in hand, hip-bumping the other man out the way in order to unlock the door. Derek moved behind him, hands on his hips, lips attached to his neck and nibbling on a weak spot just behind his ear. He began grinding his hips, dick rubbing between the student's ass cheeks, making him groan.

"Fuck," Stiles breathed out, head tilting back, free hand reaching back and clutching Derek's hip.

"Door. Open. Now," the shortstop ordered in harsh pants, words gusting against the shell of his boyfriend's ear. He'd been reduced to monosyllabic grunts, his need to be inside the other man too overwhelming for anything more than just a quick utterance. Because seriously, why were their clothes still on and why wasn't his cock rutting between his bare cheeks?

The younger man whimpered as he bit his bottom lip, hands shaking as he finally got the key in the slot and unlocked the door, followed by the deadbolt. "Finally," he breathed out, pushing the door open before being shoved inside.

Derek kicked the door shut behind them, pinning Stiles' front against the sidewall, lips sucking a mark just below the edge of the jersey at the base of his neck. His hips were still moving on their own accord, practicing for later acts, making his boyfriend keen and roll his own hips back against his.

"Jesus."

The shortstop smirked, hands sliding around slim hips and cupping the bulge at the front of the younger man's jeans. "Just 'Derek' will do."

"Prick," Stiles muttered, smirk fully evident in his voice as he pushed away from the wall, causing the older man to take a step back. With more room, the student was able to turn around, splaying his hands on the athlete's flat chest before shoving at him, not stopping until Derek was the one pinned to a wall.

The smirk remained on his face, tongue darting out to lick his lips, green eyes looking his boyfriend up and down. Stiles' hair was already slightly mussed, lips kiss-blurred and reddened, skin flushed. His pupils were dilated, barely a ring of brown around them, although Derek wasn't sure if it was from arousal or the lack of light. Either way...

"Told you," the younger man began, hands now on the other man's belt and undoing it. "Home run hitters get blow jobs."

"Think I should get extra," Derek suggested, voice rough, hips bucking as the button of his jeans was pulled out the hole. "Grand slam. Walk-off hit. Definitely should get at least two."

Stiles grinned, tongue sticking out at the corner of his lips as he concentrated. Although how much concentration the guy needed to pull down a zipper wasn't something he fully understood. "Oh, you get four for the grand slam alone," he stated, hand sliding between the parted denim and cupping Derek's erection through his boxer-briefs.

A groan left the shortstop's parted lips, head lolling back until it hit the wall. "And the walk-off hit?"

"That means you get to fuck me any way you want."

More smirking, Derek lifted his head and looked down as his boyfriend lowered himself to his knees, pulling the athlete's jeans and boxer-briefs down with him. "Doggy style," he decided, pausing to swallow hard. His chest was pumping up and down at a rapid rate, breathing shallow as his cock twitched in anticipation. "And in the jersey."

"As you wish, Walk-Off Hero." With that, he wrapped a hand around the base of Derek's cock, pumping it a few times before wrapping his lips around the head and sucking.

The athlete moaned at the sensation, hips bucking to slide more of his dick into the warm wetness of his boyfriend's mouth. Only Stiles prevented it from happening, putting his hands on the older man's hips to hold him still and control the tempo. Derek bit back a whine at that, teeth sinking into his lower lip, head tilting down to watch the action.

Fucking hell, what a sight, too.

Stiles' lips were stretched, his cock slowly disappearing into his mouth as the younger man took more of him in. Whiskey eyes flicked up, tongue fluttering on the vein on the underside, lips curving up at the corner in a smirk.

Fucking tease.

God, Derek loved it.

When about half of Derek's cock was in his mouth, Stiles pulled back, leaving the head between his lips, repeating the action several times before sliding it out. He flicked his tongue along the slit, ran it along the vein, rubbed it under the crown. He laved the entire length, paying extra attention to any and all weak spots, not pausing until it was all shiny with saliva. Then he slid it into his mouth again.

Groans filled the air, Derek's head tilting back against the wall again, gasping at the suction he felt encapsulating his cock. His left hand lay flat against the wall beside him, scrabbling to hold onto something, the fingers of his right hand sliding through tawny brown locks. His eyes drifted closed, enhancing other senses, mind inundated with it all. He could hear the slopping sucking noises Stiles was making, the hums he let out, the satisfied "mmm"s that sounded like he was the one receiving the oral rather than giving it. He could feel the warm wetness enveloping him, the gentle scraping of teeth, the teasing flicks of his tongue swirling all around him.

Jesus, he was good.

And he said as much, moaning out a "Stiles. Fuck. Your mouth," as he struggled to keep his hips still, to not give in to the temptation of just thrusting and taking what he wanted.

Stiles pulled him out with an obscene pop, moving a hand to stroke the spit covered length, swallowing hard before speaking with a rough voice. "God, I hope you do."

With no blood in his brain left, Derek had no clue what the hell that meant, his head popping up from the wall and looking down at his boyfriend, who was currently smirking with stretched lips. "Huh?"

"I hope you fuck my mouth," he clarified before sliding the hard cock back between his lips and putting his hands on the other man's hips once more. Only this time, instead of holding him in place, they were resting there gently, more for something to hold onto.

Finally catching up, the athlete gripped either side of his boyfriend's head and slowly moved his hips forward, sliding more of his cock inside that warmth. His jaw went slack, harsh breaths forced out through gaping lips, wide green eyes staring down at the sight of his dick disappearing between teasing lips. He felt the head tap against the back of the younger man's mouth, felt the flutter of his throat as he swallowed around it, making him groan loudly.

"Oh shit, Stiles," he gasped, watching the mentioned male shift the angle of his head and pulling his hips closer, until the head of his dick started down his throat. More groans, more disbelieving swears as he was deepthroated, as his cock completely disappeared into his boyfriend's mouth, the student not stopping until his nose was pressed against the athlete's pelvis.

He held still, lost in the sensation of a flutter around the head of his cock, the massaging walls as Stiles swallowed around him. He felt his own body trembling, felt his blood rushing throughout his body—which seemed like a miracle 'cause Derek was pretty sure it was all in his dick at that moment—felt the entire thing overwhelming him. Slowly, he pulled back, until just the head was left inside, allowing Stiles to take a few deep breaths.

Then he started moving.

He built up to it, of course, began with slow thrusts and smooth glides in. But as momentum started to build, he sped up, went deeper, harder, tapping the back of his boyfriend's throat, hitting it harder, getting off on the younger man's own moans. Because as much as Stiles loved getting blown himself, he loved blowing Derek even more. It led to countless comments on what a cockslut he was, dirty talk over Stiles having an oral fixation and needing to be shut up by something. And while the student would groan and nod and beg to be silenced like that, they both knew it was just heat of the moment bedroom talk.

Although there was that one time after a few too many shots of Jack and way too much oversharing that Stiles went on a fifteen minute ramble over Derek's dick and how much he loved having it in his mouth. Derek honestly didn't think McCall would ever go drinking with his best friend again, but he supposed the pitcher was probably used to it.

Okay, thinking about his teammate at that moment wasn't exactly a good idea. Shutting his brain down so he thought of nothing but how fucking good Stiles and his mouth were, Derek focused solely on the physical sensations, on the wet suction, on the way fingers were digging into his hips.

He sped up, fucking into his boyfriend's mouth in yet another preview of what was to come later on. Stiles tightened his grip, groaning loudly, his own hips bucking and trying to gain friction of their own. But not yet, not when Derek was _so close_ and he only needed a few more thrusts and—

And Stiles was sucking harder, hand sliding down to play with Derek's balls, squeezing and rubbing and rolling the twin weights. The athlete gasped out, a pleasure-filled laugh leaving him as he stuttered in his motions. Still cupping his testicles, the student reached back with two fingers and began massaging his perineum, pressing against his prostate from the outside.

That fucking did it.

Derek damn near doubled over as he came, crying out his boyfriend's name as he shot off inside his mouth. The orgasm wracked his body and made him shudder with it, air punched out his lungs, waves of ecstasy washing over him.

And that was just from the guy's mouth. God only knew how great it would be when he finally got inside his hole like he wanted to be.

Stiles slowly pulled off, giving Derek's cock kitten licks to clean it up, until all his come was gone and the sensation was too much. He slowly rose up to his full height, the athlete immediately grabbing hold of him by the back of the neck and hauling him in for a searing kiss. He could taste himself on his boyfriend's tongue, another flavor added to the alcohol and cola and pure Stiles that was already there. The taste went to his head, making his still spinning mind swirl faster until he felt dizzy-drunk with lust and Stiles.

He wanted in him. Now.

Pulling back, he rested his forehead on the younger man's, both breathing hard, air mingling between their lips. "Bed," he managed to pant out. "Now."

Stiles nodded vehemently, pulling away and stumbling through the apartment on shaky legs. The guy moved with the grace of a newborn fawn on the best of days. Add arousal and a hard-on that couldn't be ignored and walking wasn't something he appeared capable of.

Derek yanked up his jeans, leaving them open before following after him. The apartment was a blur and he barely saw the cherry floors, the white and chrome kitchen, the black sofa set and flatscreen TV in the living area. All he could see or focus on was the bedroom door at the end of it all, left open so he could easily join the younger male inside.

Stiles had already kicked off his shoes and had one sock off as he sat on the end of the bed, trying to pull the other off. Derek smirked, toeing his own shoes and socks off before stalking over, pushing his boyfriend down onto his back and laying on top of him. Their lips reconnected, the athlete bracing his weight on one forearm as his free hand cupped the younger man's face. He poured every ounce of emotion he had into the kiss, showed how much he loved the man below him, how much he appreciated his understanding and support, how much he needed him in his life. And he got every bit in return.

Hands crept up his back, pushing his t-shirt up and Derek sat up to remove it. Stiles licked his lips as his hands roamed his torso, splayed fingers rubbing over ridged abs and flat pecs.

"How are you real?" he murmured, not seeming aware that he'd spoken it out loud, nails raking their way over toned obliques.

Derek grinned, stomach flipping at the flattery. Two years later, and this guy still got his heart racing and his stomach tying itself in knots with a few sweet words. He figured that had to mean something, had to be some sorta sign that their relationship involved the words "forever" and "soul mate". And really, he'd be damned if he was letting this guy go.

Lowering himself, he kissed Stiles again, tongue sweeping inside and getting tangled with his. His hands started working on the buttons of the student's jersey, determined to gain access to more skin, determined to exploit weak spots and turn his boyfriend into a groaning, writhing, _begging_ mess.

Except when the jersey was completely unbuttoned and the sides parted, Derek came across more fabric.

Sitting up again, he scowled down at the white tee blocking his path. "You and your fucking layers," he grumbled, pulling it up and revealing the pale flesh he was so desperate to get his mouth on.

Stiles chuckled as he lifted his own upper body into a sitting position, tugging both shirts up in an attempt to take them off. Instead, he ended up tangled with his tee over his face and his arms sticking up in the air. Awkward as always.

His hands flailed, Derek laughing at the sight of his boyfriend stuck in his clothes, deciding to lend a hand before he started complaining. Shirts removed, the student untangled the jersey from the tee, slipping his arms back in the sleeves and leaving it dangling off his shoulders.

"There," he huffed out, like he'd spent the past five minutes sprinting rather than taking clothes off.

The shortstop laughed more, cupping his boyfriend's face in his palm and kissing him sweetly, completely endeared by his awkwardness and spastic behavior. Pulling back, he ran his hands through mussy hair, strands sticking every way except the right one, loving the feel of the silken locks running between his fingers.

The couple returned to their kiss, slowly moving so Stiles was on his back again, Derek laying atop him. Their hands battled at the younger man's belt buckle, the athlete winning and undoing it before setting to work on his jeans. Not an easy job, given the way Stiles' hips were rolling, cock straining at the fly in a desperate need to be freed and be touched.

Jeans opened, Derek maneuvered them until the student was on all fours, the shortstop kneeling behind him. He tugged down the denim and his boxers in one move, getting cooperation from his boyfriend as he completely removed them and tossed them aside. On a last minute decision, he took off his own, leaving them both naked—save for the jersey covering the younger man's upper body.

And fucking hell, the sight before him was beautiful.

Stiles had dropped down onto his forearms, ass on display, wiggling it enticingly. The jersey hung open on either side of him, royal blue contrasting nicely with his pale skin. And the orange name stitched onto the back was a gorgeous image indeed, striking that possessive side of Derek he'd felt moments before in the elevator. Because his surname on Stiles' back seemed like a mark of ownership, a sign to the entire world that he belonged to the shortstop and no one else. And really, the reverse was true, too. Derek was Stiles', just as much as Stiles was his.

Kneeling behind his boyfriend, he cupped his ass, spreading the cheeks and revealing the tight pucker he'd had his finger on earlier. The student gave another wiggle, a silent invitation, a wordless plea to touch, to enjoy, to do _something_. So Derek took the hint, diving right in and licking the crease between his cheeks with the flat of his tongue.

Stiles gasped loudly, head rearing back, body shuddering at the sensation. The sound went straight to Derek's cock, the organ twitching, letting him know that if he kept that up, it'll have no problem coming back and joining the fun.

Smirking, the athlete went back to licking his boyfriend's hole, quick little kitten licks that served to tease more than anything. The younger man whimpered, pushing back against his tongue, trying to get more, to feel more. Normally, the athlete would grip his hips and hold him still, but considering the mind blowing oral he'd just gotten, he was feeling more generous, deciding that the student had earned it.

Flattening his tongue, he pressed against his hole, lapping at it repeatedly. Stiles was gasping for air, head hanging, chest heaving beneath his open jersey. Moans left him, fingers clutching at the comforter below him, inhaling sharply when Derek's tongue slipped inside him.

Derek lapped all around his rim, flicking his tongue around the inside of his hole, stretching him with his tongue. He pulled back and sucked on a finger, slicking it up before sliding it inside, biting his lip at the tight grip. Arousal flooded his veins, heating him from the inside out, blood rushing to his cock once again.

He moved his finger in and out, tugged at the tight rim, stretched him out. His tongue was added to the mix, keeping the ring moist, helping to further loosen it. A second finger was soon added, making his boyfriend gasp out once again. The two digits were worked in and out, scissoring, opening him up. And all the while, Stiles was a shaking, panting mess, begging Derek for more, for faster, for _everything_.

And fuck if Derek didn't wanna give it to him.

"Lube," he demanded gruffly, free arm reaching forward and making grabby hands, as Stiles would call them.

The younger man groaned in annoyance and frustration as he leaned forward, barely able to get his hand in the nightstand drawer where their supplies were kept. He tossed the bottle back at the athlete, whose speedy baseball reflexes allowed him to catch it with one hand.

Slipping his fingers free, Derek lubed all four on his right hand up, sliding two back inside and making his boyfriend's passageway wetter, easier to move in and out of. A third finger was added, wrenching a long moan from the younger man.

"Oh god, Der," he breathed out, head hanging again. His hips began moving in rhythm with the fingers, bucking back. His hole was clenching around them even as it was loosened, as though it wanted to keep them inside, keep him full.

Derek rubbed his stubble-covered jaw over the sensitive skin of Stiles' ass, making him hiss, smirking at the way the flesh reddened. His cock was fully hard once more, watching his boyfriend fall apart at his ministrations a good majority of the reason why. Witnessing his fingers disappearing into his body and knowing his cock was soon going to be held within that tight grip was definitely helping, too.

"I'm ready," Stiles moaned. "God, I am so very fucking ready. Just fuck me, fuck me, _fuck me_."

The shortstop slipped his fingers free, snatching up the condom box that had been tossed onto the bed at some point. Freeing one, he rolled it over his cock, slicking it up with more lube and making sure he was covered.

Reaching back, the student lifted the bottom of his jersey, putting his ass on display. "Derek, _please_." He was whiny, desperate, hole clenching around air and trying to pull something in. The sight of his boyfriend being so needy made the athlete moan, his own hips bucking into his fist as he tried to line himself up with the place he wanted so badly to be in.

"Fuck. Yes," Stiles breathed out when the tip of Derek's dick touched his hole, a brief tap, a kiss of sorts. Figuring they'd both been teased enough, he pushed forward, meeting very little resistance as his cock slipped inside of his boyfriend.

Both men groaned as he bottomed out, pausing when he was fully sheathed inside. It was like sliding into home, every time, and there was no way he could ever get tired of the feeling, of the sights and sounds and feels as he was fully enveloped.

Hands on slim hips, Derek pulled out until just the head was remaining inside, pushing back in. His rhythm started out slow, easy, allowing them both to revel in the sensations of it all. He was gripped perfectly, held tightly and squeezed for all he was worth. And fuck, if it wasn't as perfect as it was every other time they did this.

Stiles arched his back, practically mewling as Derek went deeper, the angle shifting and causing him to graze his prostate. His hand shot out, scrabbling to grab hold of the athlete's...anything really, before settling for gripping the sheet once again. The older man shifted, laying his torso along a leaner one, left hand covering his boyfriend's and slotting their fingers together. His forehead rested at the base of his neck, eyes blurring but able to partially make-out the stitched name spread across his shoulder blades.

_His_ name.

Or his surname, to be exact. But it was his nonetheless.

His hips moved with more purpose, driving, pounding thrusts rather than the smooth glides they had been before. The sight of his surname was the ultimate propellant, spurring him into faster actions. All he could think about was how fucking incredible those four letters looked on Stiles, how perfect they'd be attached as a hyphenate in front of "Stilinski." Or behind it, didn't matter, he wasn't picky. As long as the two of them were officially joined together with a shared last name, then Derek was happy.

Beyond happy. So happy there wasn't really a word for it.

Stiles began moving with Derek, pushing his hips back to meet his every thrust, the two of them colliding with every pound. The air was filled with the sounds of their fucking, their pelvises slapping together, their panting, their moaning. The scent of lust hung heavy in the air, and as the athlete lapped at his boyfriend's neck and tasted the salt on his skin, he felt like all of his senses were completely overtaken by all things Stiles.

The student whimpered beneath him, gasped out moans escaping him with nearly every exhale. His entire body was trembling out of his control, shudders wracking him, passage spasming around the older man's cock and massaging him on his every thrust in.

"Oh, god, Der," he breathed out, swallowing hard. "Fuck. So close."

Derek shifted his hand from his boyfriend's hip to wrap around his cock, stroking him in long slow motions, completely out of sync from the fast hard pounds he was driving into him. His muscles were tightening up, balls drawing up close, the base of his spine tingling as his body told him he was close, too, that he was almost there, that he was seconds away from blowing his load.

But not before Stiles.

"C'mon, baby," he urged in the younger man's ear, voice gruff, panting a few times before continuing. "Come for me. Lemme see it. Lemme hear you call my name as you fall apart."

A high pitched whine left Stiles, followed by a shaky exhale, head nodding vehemently. Derek's hand sped up, stroking him faster, motions sloppy but effective.

"Shit, Derek!" the student cried out, free hand shooting forward and slamming against the headboard. His head reared back, nearly slamming into the athlete's on accident, a long drawn out groan leaving his gaping mouth. And as his entire body seemed to spasm and flail, Derek felt his cock twitch in his hand, ropes of come shooting out with every stroke, his inner-walls clenching hard around his own dick.

Derek kept thrusting through Stiles' aftershocks, through the trembling that was still wracking his body, both to prolong his boyfriend's orgasm and to spur his own on. His thrusts were erratic, no rhythm to them, no real pace. Just out of control motions as he brought himself closer and closer, higher and higher, until finally...

"Ah, fuck, Stiles!"

His entire body tensed up, muscles tightened to a point that would be painful if he was still able to feel the sensation. He panted out against his boyfriend's neck as he trembled, feeling his dick twitch and jerk, filling the condom covering it until his balls were empty.

It took both of them a long moment before either really felt like moving, although Stiles tried. His knees slid outwards, upper body falling before Derek grasped him around the waist.

"Oh no, you don't," he muttered, holding his boyfriend up with weary arms.

"'M tired," the younger man slurred, head hanging again, this time out of fatigue.

"Me, too, but I'm not listening to you bitch all night about laying in a wet spot."

The student grumbled under his breath, syllables that were meant to be words and therefore went completely misunderstood by the older man. Instead, Derek slowly pulled out, keeping hold of the condom, before rolling Stiles onto his back. A lazy grin was on his face, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded, and he looked thoroughly fucked out.

Job well done.

With shaky legs, Derek stood up and shuffled to the bathroom, tying off the condom and tossing it in the trash. Gathering what he needed he headed back to the main part of the master suite, finding Stiles still laying on his back, jersey splayed open, just like his legs. It was an incredible sight, one Derek would take a photo of to constantly look at so he could always remember this moment.

Or maybe not. Who the hell knew what kinda shit would happen if that pic fell into the wrong hands?

Nothing good, for sure.

Shoving aside all thoughts of photos, Derek set about cleaning his boyfriend then himself before disposing of the washcloth in the bathroom. On his second trip back, he found Stiles now without the jersey—which was laying in a heap near the closet, pretty much as close as Stiles got to putting things in the hamper—remote in hand as he switched on the TV.

Derek groaned as he climbed in next to him, maneuvering them both until they were under the covers, sheet up to their waists. "Seriously?" he questioned dubiously. "Even after sex?"

"Tradition," was the student's "duh" response, more focused on pulling up the DVR list and clicking the Mets post-game show he'd had set to record earlier.

The shortstop sighed in exasperation, wondering how the hell that had even become a thing in the first place. Then again, the slender male sidling up next to him and using the crook of his arm as a pillow was pretty much the answer to that. That, plus the fact that he'd give Stiles damn near anything he wanted. He was that in deep with the guy.

Although he kinda wished he wasn't so in deep that he'd spend every night—or evening—after a home game watching _Mets Extra_. Unless it was a loss. Stiles refused to watch recaps of a loss. Sometimes he'd fast forward through it to see highlights if Derek personally had a good game, but other than that, he wanted nothing to do with them.

The Mets having won their game and Derek having hit a grand slam meant he was forced to watch the highlights and in-depth analysis, Stiles chiming in with his own commentary.

Because tradition, as the student had stated.

Sighing once again, he settled in against the pillows, arm wrapped around his boyfriend and holding him close. Replays of his grand-slam played on the flatscreen on the opposite wall, Stiles grinning widely, practically beaming up at him in a way he couldn't hours before at the bar.

"So proud of you," he praised, pride dripping off every word.

Derek smiled just as big back, barely hearing the analysts breaking down his hit and rambling on with praise of their own. He didn't need to hear it. As long as he had Stiles saying those very things to him, that was all he needed to hear.


	2. Part 2

_**A/N: **_New York Post_ is property of whatever publisher prints it out. The charities mentioned in this part belong to whoever owns them. _Quick Pitch_ is property of MLB Network and the MLB. _SportsCenter_ is property of ESPN and Disney. All gossip sites mentioned here are property of whoever owns them. Anything else I missed, sorry. Please don't sue._

* * *

><p>The ringing of a cell phone woke Derek up. Normally it would be his alarm, but Stiles had insisted on not setting it due to the fact that it was an off-day and there was no need to get up early.<p>

Didn't stop him from waking Derek up at six am for a lazy blow job, but the athlete wasn't about to complain.

Stiles, however, _was_ complaining, grumbling out curse-laden threats towards Derek's iPhone, hiding his head under his pillow. The older man swiped his cell off his nightstand, fully prepared to hit '_ignore_'. Until he saw who was calling.

Sliding his thumb across the screen to answer, he put the device to his ear, fingers of his free hand rubbing at his eyes. "It's ten am on an off-day and I was sleeping. This better be good," he greeted his agent, voice rough and snappy, figuring she deserved his attitude for waking him up.

Kate snorted down the line and he could picture her rolling his eyes at his behavior. "_I take it you haven't seen the _New York Post_ then._"

Derek dropped his hand onto the comforter, scowling up at the ceiling. Stiles shuffled around in his peripheral vision, further pulling his pillow on his head in a clear attempt to shut out the chatter. Derek wanted to join him, but knew he couldn't. Kate wouldn't have called him out the blue—especially on an off-day—without a damn good reason, meaning he had no choice but to stay on the phone.

Shit.

"Considering the fact that I was _sleeping_, no."

"_Well then, get your ass out of bed and get it._"

Derek sighed loudly, flipping the covers back with more force than necessary, ignoring his boyfriend's grumbles as he got up. Wasn't like it was the shortstop's idea to leave bed. The slight ache in his muscles meant he was totally fine with spending the day in it, the most physical exertion coming from trips to the kitchen or bathroom. Or sex.

He grabbed a random pair of sweatpants from his drawer, slipping them on as he shuffled out the room, closing the door behind himself.

"So what's so damn important about this paper that it couldn't wait 'til later?" he demanded to know, yawning at the end as though his body had decided the words needed some back-up to prove their point about the earliness of her call.

Kate let out a huff before snarking right back at him. "_Get the paper, check the back page, and see for yourself._"

The shortstop rolled his eyes as he unlocked and opened his door, snatching the paper from the ground before turning and shuffling into the kitchen. The back page acted as the front page of the sports section, the biggest story in New York sports taking up the entire page. Chances were it was Derek's walk-off grand slam, the page covered with a photo of him hitting or being swarmed at home plate by his teammates.

He found himself scowling again as he tossed the paper on the granite island. Totally not worth waking him up for.

Then again, as he flipped the rag over and saw what actually _was_ on the back page, maybe it was.

Because printed there in full color was Stiles and himself making out in the parking deck last night, "_MEET THE (GAY) METS_" printed in big bold white letters.

Derek felt his heart stop in his chest then drop to his stomach, the organ churning. His skin tingled all over, prickling in an uncomfortable way, making him want to claw it all off. Panic had his lungs freezing and his breathing becoming shallow. But he couldn't tear his widened eyes away, taking in all the details of a photo that was about to change his life.

Because he'd just been outed.

"Fuck."

"_Almost_," Kate chimed in, making him realize he'd spoken out loud. And that he was still on the phone. "_But I'm sure you did when you made it up to your apartment._"

He couldn't appreciate the double entendre or the joke, entire body going numb, mind feeling as though he was a thousand miles away. He was barely aware of turning the pages, of finding the article and seeing more pictures: Derek up against the wall, his head tilted back with Stiles at his throat; his hand down the back of Stiles' pants; him dragging Stiles onto the elevator.

"How did this happen?" he croaked out, scanning the article without actually absorbing any of the info it gave, only really seeing his name and the phrases "_unknown male_", "_anonymous source_", "_possible one night stand with a random fan_".

Fuck.

"_My guess is that someone tipped off this Matt Daehler guy,_" Kate theorized before letting out a dismissive snort. "_Not that it matters. Shit's out there now and we can't take it back or make it go away._"

His knees gave out, a stool catching him as he sank down, burying his face in his hands. Fuck. He was outed. The world now knew he was into men, was _with_ a man. It wasn't how he wanted it to happen, _when_ he wanted it to happen. He'd had the choice completely taken away from him, the decision not his to make.

He felt violated, his private life invaded, his most personal secret put on display for anyone and everyone to see and judge him for. He was a zoo animal for everyone to stare at and poke at and make fun of, even more than he already had been.

And the hate. Oh fuck, the hate he was gonna get. Because he didn't receive enough of it from people who didn't like the Mets or were annoyed by how well he played against their favorite team. No, now he was gonna get even more, by people who didn't even watch baseball or sports at all, just because some small-minded assholes out there had a problem with same sex relationships. And it wouldn't only be him receiving the animosity and death threats; his teammates would be targeted, too, simply for being associated with him.

Fucking hell, he'd just ruined the lives of countless people, including one still dozing in bed.

"_Derek?_" Kate called for his attention, reminding him—again—that he was still on the phone. Apparently it was a bad habit that morning. "_We need to get your side out there while the story's still fresh._"

Derek's eyes widened again, hand scrubbing his mouth and whiskered jaw, panic welling up once more. "I can't—" he choked out before trying again. "There's no way I can handle thinking about that. Not right now. I. I need some time to wrap my head around this and get my thoughts straight."

His agent huffed like he was inconveniencing her, like he'd turned _her_ life on its head rather than he being the one whose entire world had been smashed into.

"_Fine_," she grit out, giving him a mental image of her grinding her jaw in annoyance. "_Come to my office at one and we'll create some sorta game plan then._"

"Sure." He nodded, figuring nearly three hours should be enough time for him to come to grips with what had happened and what that meant for him and his life.

"_One o'clock, Derek_," she repeated in a warning tone before hanging up, leaving him alone with his nausea, his thoughts, and a newspaper that had managed to fuck with his entire existence.

Fuck.

Shit.

Fuck again.

Burying his face back in his hands, Derek focused on his breathing, trying to calm himself down. He wasn't sure if he was tensed up and frozen or trembling all over, anxiety frying out all his nerve endings and making him numb.

His ears still worked though, hearing the bedroom door opening and two feet scuffing their way over.

"Wha' wa' bi' 'merhen'y?" Stiles questioned through a yawn, plopping down on the stool to Derek's left and repeating it in English. "What was the big emergency?"

The older man didn't say a word. One hand still on his face, he flipped the paper closed and slid it over to his boyfriend.

"Oh," the student commented flatly, the paper rustling before he let out a more appropriate "oh _shit_."

He snorted through his hands, his entire body jerking with the action, thinking the swear perfectly summed it all up. "Pretty much, yeah."

The sounds of pages being turned hit his ears, Stiles mumbling as he read the article, adding in his commentary. A long moment of silence descended upon them when he finished, the paper being closed, the younger man repeatedly running his hands over his head. Apparently he'd forgotten he no longer had a buzzcut.

It was a long time before either of them spoke and Derek wasn't all that surprised it wasn't he who did it.

"Guess you _have_ to come out now, huh?"

The shortstop's head popped up at that, staring straight ahead at the stainless steel microwave, realization setting in. Stiles had been glancing around the elevator, claiming to be checking the coast was clear before he kissed the older man. When really, he could've been making sure the photog he'd tipped off had shown like he was supposed to so he could put on a good performance and really get some great shots.

Holy shit. Stiles had sold him out.

His eyes narrowed, brown drawn into an angry frown, scowling as he turned to his boyfriend, one of a handful of people in his life he thought he could trust with his life.

Apparently he'd been wrong.

"You did this, didn't you?" he accused, jaw tense.

Stiles' brow furrowed, lips curving up in a confused sneer. "Huh?"

"_You_ told the pap," Derek clarified, anger thick in his words. "That's why you were looking around the parking deck."

An eye roll was the student's initial response, followed by a snarky, elongated "nooo". "I was looking to make sure there were _no_ paps."

"Or making you were making sure the photographer you tipped off had turned up so you could give him a good shot worthy of the front page." He wrapped up his argument by throwing the _New York Post_ across the counter, pages flying everywhere, scattering about and making a mess.

The younger man flinched at the movement, face falling. The confused frown returned, joined by saddened downturned eyes as he turned his body so he was fully facing his boyfriend. "You can't be fuckin' serious. Why the hell would I do that?"

"Because you're sick of us being hidden," Derek pointed out, feeling proud of himself for his ability to keep his voice even and calm when everything inside was screaming at him to snap and yell and blow the fuck up. The newspaper hadn't been enough to quench his desire to throw shit, but he wasn't that angry teenager anymore who broke shit whenever he got a little pissed. He was better than that.

At least he was trying to be better than that. That morning seemed to really be testing his resolve and his anger management.

"You want us out there being all coupley with the excess PDA, just like everyone else," he wrapped up in a biting tone.

The puzzled expression remained on Stiles' face. "I told you last night I didn't mind us being on the DL."

Derek snorted, rolling his eyes sardonically. "Sure. And you've never lied before, right?"

A disbelieving laugh forced its way out the other guy's gaping mouth, his entire body shaking from the force of it. "Wow. You really think I'd betray you like that." He stared at the older man with wide eyes, hurt dripping off every word.

The athlete could feel his anger rising, finding it almost impossible to comprehend that the younger man would even have the balls to be upset about this. The whole damn thing was his fault in the first place. He'd caused it all, had set it all in motion. He had zero fucking right to act like he was the one who'd had his emotions screwed with.

Dick.

Derek couldn't stand being so close to him anymore, was unable to be right next to someone who could so easily go behind his back like that then act like they'd been the one who'd been wronged. It was almost worse than the initial betrayal.

The stool scraped loudly against the hardwood floor as he shot up to his feet. "Who else could it be?" he demanded to know, stomping around the island to put some distance between them, narrowly avoiding slipping on any of the scattered newspaper. "Who else knows about us in order to tell that pap?"

Stiles spun to face him, face a mix of anger and hurt. "Gee, I dunno," he snarked with a wiggle of his head. "Your family. Allison. A teammate who caught us one night."

The shortstop leaned back against the opposite counter, arms folded over his bare chest, scowl firmly set on his face. "And what would they stand to gain by outing me?"

Mouth like a goldfish, the younger man floundered to come up with a good answer, sputtering out nonsensical syllables before finally forming words. "What do _I_ stand to gain?" was all he could seem to think up, palm on his own naked chest, eyebrows creased in disbelief.

A snort made its way out his mouth, eyes rolling, hating that he was having to repeat himself. "Like I said, you get to have us be out and get to indulge in PDA like you want."

Stiles held his hands palms up on the counter, a physical action meant to show his innocence, meant to make him appear harmless. "And I keep telling you I don't care about that," he insisted.

"Why should I believe you?" Derek questioned, voice as hard and cold as his eyes, still scowling.

The hurt expression returned to the student's face full force, sad downturned eyes reminding Derek of those abused dogs on those Humane Society ads that rip your heart out and make you feel like the worst kind of bastard for changing the channel.

"Because you love me," Stiles choked out through a wobbling lower lip, wide eyes shiny with unshed tears. His words were weak, a feeble attempt at trying to convince the other man they were true. "Because you _trust_ me."

The look on his boyfriend's face was killing Derek. And knowing that he'd been the one to put it there—

No. For all the athlete knew, the pathetic looking male before him had betrayed his confidence and blown his life apart.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Really, who the fuck knew?

Sighing heavily, Derek ducked his head, eyes fixated on his bare feet, the pale skin a stark contrast to the dark cherry floors. "I don't know who to trust anymore," he confessed lowly, swallowing hard and raising his head back up, meeting hurt eyes with angry ones. "Not when my biggest secret is splashed across the sports page of one of the most popular publications in one of the biggest cities in the country."

The younger man worked his jaw, fingers drumming together on top of the table. "And you think _I'm_ the reason why it's there." Statement, not question.

In actuality, Derek had no idea what he thought. He didn't really think Stiles would do that, but there was nothing really to prove he hadn't other than a gut feeling. Wasn't like anyone's heart hadn't steered them wrong before.

And when he really thought about it, all the signs and evidence seemed to point towards Stiles being the "anonymous source".

Fuck, did it kill Derek to even consider the possibility of his own boyfriend selling him out.

Swallowing hard, he steeled his nerves, refusing to show the shakiness he felt inside. Maybe if he just confronted the other man, he'd back down and admit the truth.

"Seems to be the most logical explanation."

Stiles pressed his lips together in a hard line, nodding like a bobblehead, eyes turned away. The whiskey orbs were shinier than before, a lone tear sliding down a cheek that he stubbornly refused to wipe away. Because doing so would be admitting that he was hurt and Stilinski men, according to Stiles, had an annoying habit of masking that emotion.

"Well, in that case," he began then paused, voice rough, working his jaw around. "Fuck your logic." Stiles turned his head to the older man, glaring through tear-filled eyes, body trembling from emotions held in check. "And fuck you."

Not hesitating, the student shot up to his feet and stormed off to the bedroom, bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. The door was slammed, soon followed by another, most likely the bathroom one.

Derek remained frozen where he was, too stunned to react. He should've known the other man would lash out like that, would've stomped off and locked himself in another room. It's how he himself would react if the situation was reversed. Still, he couldn't help but he surprised at how quickly things had escalated and to what level. It wasn't how he expected that conversation to go. Hell, it wasn't how he expected his _day_ to go.

But it had. His plans for a somewhat lazy day in bed had been shot to shit and all because someone had leaked his secret relationship to the media.

Someone who could possibly be the person hiding out in his bathroom.

There was no fucking way he was staying in that apartment a second longer, not with his emotions vacillating so much and so fast he was afraid they'd short out.

Purpose fueled his motions as he strode to the bedroom, quickly getting dressed in whatever random dark clothing he grabbed from his side of the walk-in closet. Double-checking he had everything, he gave a long look at the bathroom door. It was locked, he just knew it without even having to touch the knob. And chances were if he tried to say anything, he'd be ignored or cursed at. Or both.

They'd talk later, when their emotions cooled off and they could think with calmer heads. Wasn't like it was their first fight.

A cold sense of dread washed over Derek as he left his apartment, numbing him out. He wasn't sure if talking to Stiles was a good idea really. After all, doing that very thing had gotten him in that mess in the first place.

* * *

><p>The Argent Group's offices were located in downtown Manhattan, taking up two floors of a skyscraper full of countless legal professionals and businessmen. Derek's lawyer was located in the same building, which made everything more convenient for him.<p>

Although he was fairly certain he wouldn't be needing Morrell's help with his current situation; just his agent's.

Maybe. He was pretty sure at least.

Kate Argent's office was on the second floor the company owned, a symbol of her status within it. Derek still wasn't sure if she'd gained it through hard work or if it was due to the fact that her father had created—and was still in charge of—the company. Either way, she was a good agent, having negotiated his first contract after being signed by the Mets. And with it expiring at the end of the season, he was gonna need her help with that once more.

If the organization even wanted to keep him after this media fiasco.

He arrived about an hour early for his meeting, deciding to head on up and hope she was available. Any other time he would've grabbed some lunch and killed the time hanging about in the diner on the first floor, but he wasn't in the mood that day. For starters, he wasn't about to risk being seen—hence his terrible disguise of sunglasses and black NYU ball cap. Secondly, he wasn't all that hungry, despite having skipped breakfast. His argument with Stiles was still hanging over him like a storm cloud, guilt at the accusations that'd been thrown around dragging him down. But really, what was he to think? _Someone_ had sold him out and logic told him it'd been Stiles.

Yet Derek's heart was screaming at him to screw logic, that there's no way Stiles would betray him like that, that it wasn't the other guy's habit or personality to do that. He was loyal to the end and one-hundred percent dedicated to his boyfriend and to think otherwise meant he didn't know Stiles as well as he thought he had.

Then again, maybe that was the problem. Maybe he really _didn't_ known Stiles all that well and that the guy really _was_ capable of doing something like this. Anything was possible really.

Shit, his head hurt. He really did _not_ want to have to deal with this. He'd just wanted to play baseball, not have his private life splashed across magazines and websites.

Too late for that he supposed.

Derek checked in with Kate's assistant-of-the-month, an unremarkable college student looking guy with a temporary nameplate stating his name was Greenberg. He honestly couldn't remember what he'd said to the guy, if he'd said anything at all. His mind was still buzzing, emotions numb, and pretty much everything from the time he'd left his apartment to the moment he stepped into Kate's office was all a big blank.

"You realize that the cap and sunglasses make you stand out rather than blend in, right?"

His eyes snapped up at the female voice, recognizing its usual condescending tone. He quickly realized he was seated in his agent's office, surrounded by the white and chrome décor he knew filled the space.

Not that he was seeing any of it, barely noticing the walls of photos featuring herself with various clients—including one of her and Derek in the Mets dugout at Citi Field—didn't register her degrees or accolades, wasn't aware of the family pictures and knickknacks on her desk right in front of him. He knew all that stuff was there, just like he knew she was seated behind her desk with her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed, the Manhattan skyline visible through the glass walls behind her.

He knew it was all there; he just didn't _see_ any of it.

And it wasn't because he still had his sunglasses on.

Her words finally made it through the fog surrounding his head, bringing everything into focus. Kate was exactly where he thought she'd be, turned slightly to the side, eyes analytical as she stared at him. She was all sharp angles and slender features, from her slim nose to her long fingers currently twirling a pen. She was beautiful and intimidating at the same time and Derek often found himself in awe of her for several reasons. He'd had a crush on her when she'd first taken him on as a client, but had been scared out of it when he witnessed the rabid way she'd negotiated his first contract.

Made her an incredible agent through and his signing bonus had helped pay off his student loans. And then some.

Finally feeling with it—or at least more with it than he had been—Derek shrugged, adjusting the cap on his head and trying hard not to think about who it really belonged to. He'd attended UC-Irvine, not NYU. He'd just randomly grabbed the first cap he could get his hands on. Total coincidence that it belonged to Stiles. Or maybe fate.

"I just can't stand to see anyone's reaction to me," he answered, feeling proud that he was being halfway honest. Because while he had been trying to hide, he was also trying to avoid the look on everyone's faces when they recognized him and realized he'd been lying to them his entire time in the bigs. And the minors. And sorta in college.

Basically, he was an asshole who'd been hiding the truth from everyone for years and because of that was now unable to look anyone in the eye for fear they'd be disgusted and disappointed by him and his actions.

"Understandable," Kate responded, rocking back and forth in her white leather chair. "But hiding won't help. In fact, it's probably the worst thing you can do. It makes it seem like you're ashamed or embarrassed to be gay—"

"Bi," he corrected flatly with a scowl. If they were gonna be discussing his personal life—which he _really_ didn't wanna do—he wanted them to at least use the right info and terms.

"With a guy," she placated, tone only slightly mocking before she continued on in her usual one. "Laying low is for cheating scandals, drug abuse, or any other crap those Hollywood assholes pull and seem to get away with." She flicked up a finger with each listed item before pointing at him. "_You_, on the other hand, are an athlete who plays in the media capital of the world _and_ you have a game tomorrow and nearly every day for the next five months, complete with countless post-game interviews. You can't hide."

Derek smeared a hand over his jaw and mouth, whiskers scratching at his palm. "Shit."

Kate's eyebrows wagged in a motion be interpreted as "no kidding" before speaking out loud, tone and expression all business. Yet he could still see a devious curve to the ends of her lips, a dangerous glint in chocolate eyes, both of which he'd witnessed her wearing while negotiating an endorsement deal with an energy drink, right before she turned around and got him a better one with their competitors.

He had no idea if he should be excited about or terrified of what was about to leave her lips.

"My suggestion is that we just come out and—" She paused, apparently only aware of the double meaning after she'd said it. Bobbing her head in a 'what can you do now?' kind of way, she went on. "No pun intended. Just immediately go public with your side of the whole thing, make it seem like you're a poor victim and—"

"I _am_ a victim," he snapped at her, shooting up from his slouched position so he was now sitting up straight. "My privacy was invaded and personal life was put on display for all the world to see!"

He was vaguely aware that he was yelling, even less that he was gesturing wildly in a manner that he'd clearly picked up from Stiles. The student had always been the more dramatic one in their relationship, limbs flying and voice raising louder than necessary, like his emotions over that subject were too much to contain and couldn't be properly expressed through word choice alone, like his feelings on the matter couldn't be held in and their only escape was through flailing. It happened quite a lot, to the point where Derek was now finding himself doing it in his agent's office in the hopes that it accurately conveyed how pissed he was feeling at not just the situation, but at Kate's insinuation that he wasn't a victim and that he hadn't just had his entire world destroyed by Super Storm _New York Post_.

Kate smirked as she spun the chair to face him. Crossing her forearms on her desk, she leaned forward, eying him further. "I like the passion, but tone it down. You need to seem more hurt and violated, not angry and violent. It makes you more personable and likable."

Derek sighed harshly as he slumped back down, finally removing his sunglasses in order to rub at his eyes. He knew Kate needed to keep a cool head during this shit storm, that she needed to be professional and handle this diplomatically—since he was clearly too emotionally fucked to do it himself—but he wished she wasn't so damn detached. It was almost like she'd forgotten the human element of the whole thing and was only seeing her cash cow providing a good story for her to spin, something for her to do. She'd totally lost sight of the fact that people were involved, that their feelings were entangled, that their lives were forever altered by all of this and that their future happiness depended on their next move.

He suddenly felt like hiding under his covers and hoping all the bad stuff would just go away, just like he'd done after his dad's cancer diagnosis and subsequent death.

Kate had used that story to sell him to Stand Up to Cancer and kNOw Lung Cancer, painting him as the perfect spokesman due to his personal experience with the disease and how it had affected his family. God only knew who she'd whore him and his sexuality out to now.

Not that he had a problem being the face of those groups and raising awareness of them and their work. He just felt like she'd exploited him and had taken advantage of his family's scars for monetary gain. He justified it by reminding himself that it was her job to make him money and plaster his face on things and that he was doing good by promoting and endorsing those groups. Still, sometimes her methods prickled him and didn't quite sit right.

"Now," Kate began sharply, regaining his attention. He dropped his hand and focused, watching as she slid a pad in front of her and clicked her pen open. "We need to hop on the media train _immediately_, get your face and your story out there."

Derek felt his hands go clammy, his heart pounding. He hated interviews that involved anything but the game he'd just played. Opening up wasn't something he easily did and spilling his guts to complete strangers made him totally uncomfortable. None of what he did or thought off the field was anyone's business but his, hence the term "personal life". He'd much rather take a Louisville Slugger to the head—repeatedly—than deal with invasive questions and talking about himself as anything other than a participant in a recently ended game.

His agent either didn't notice his reaction or didn't care, too preoccupied with scrawling on her pad, taking notes of some form.

"We need to line up interviews with all the morning shows: _Today_, _Good Morning America_, whoever is on that _Live_ show with Kelly Ripa these days," she rattled off, still not looking up at him, pen in constant motion. "We'll get you on ESPN, SNY, MLB Network, on the covers of all the sports mags, _People_, _Out_—"

Derek only knew she was talking by the fact that her mouth was moving, because he wasn't really hearing anything she was saying. All the shows, channels, magazines, it was all too much and he felt his head spinning even more than before. So many interviews. And it was gonna be the same questions over and over and over again, the same wound repeatedly stabbed by different people using the same weapon.

He was gonna throw up.

As soon as he regained the ability to breathe. At that moment, his chest was too tight and his lungs couldn't expand enough and he wasn't getting any air.

And that was from just _thinking_ about all those interviews. Actually doing them would most likely cause a full-on breakdown and that wasn't something he wanted to experience firsthand. Witnessing Stiles' panic attacks was traumatic enough.

Thinking about Stiles wasn't really helping anything though.

"No," he croaked out, clearing his throat and repeating himself. "No way."

Whatever Kate was about to say became caught in her throat, making her choke slightly. "I'm sorry," she apologized, not sounding at all like she meant it. Her face screwed up in an expression of confusion, clearly not understanding why she was interrupted or what he'd meant by what he'd said. "Did you just say 'no'?"

"Yeah. Because there's no way I'm doing any of that."

His agent took a deep breath, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. She calmly set her pen down, folding her hands on top. "Derek," she started then paused, tone the same nice sort of condescending one a person would use on a small child who didn't understand why they weren't supposed to do that bad thing they'd just done. "This is the best way to handle this."

"No," he argued, jaw tense, his own eyes narrowed in a glare. "I can't deal with all those fucking interviews, okay? There's just no fucking way I'm answering the same invasive questions over and over. Hell, there's no way I'm answering them at all." He folded his arms over his chest, showing he was totally serious in body language _and_ in words. "No interviews."

"But—"

"None," he cut off her counterpoint before adding in a compromise to placate her. Because if he didn't, she'd continue to argue until she wore him down and he did whatever she wanted him to.

Dance, monkey, dance!

"At least for right now."

Kate huffed as she slammed back against her chair, repeatedly stabbing her pen tip onto her pad and working her jaw. Clearly she was pissed, but he wasn't backing down on this one. The line had to be drawn somewhere, and since the one he'd put between his public persona and his personal life had been demolished, he was gonna make damn sure this one stayed put. With reinforcements.

It took her a moment, but Kate soon realized he wasn't budging and that she needed to get over it. Flipping blonde hair over her shoulder, she twisted her head to the side, wagging her eyebrows before breathing out a "fine". Hard brown eyes met his green ones, making it clear she wasn't backing down either. "But we need to at least release your statement commenting on what happened and on your sexuality."

Derek scrubbed his jaw again, figuring it was as good a compromise as he was gonna get. On one condition, of course. "I'll handle it."

"_Today_," she clarified in a hard voice. "Like I said, delaying and hiding makes you seem ashamed so we need to strike while the iron is hot, so to speak." She scribbled on her pad before flicking her eyes back up at him. "Email me your statement by five-forty-five or I'll create one for you."

His brow furrowed in confusion at the random time, figuring most deadlines were on the hour or at least half-past. "Why five-forty-five?"

Rocking in her chair, she folded her arms over her chest and spoke in a manner that told him he should've already known because it was just that obvious. "So I have time to look it over before sending it out for the six o'clock news and the live evening editions of _SportsCenter_ and _MLB Tonight_."

He slowly nodded, not sure how comfortable he felt with how easily she'd just rattled that off, like she'd had it memorized or something. "Right."

"In the meantime, think about what I said regarding those interviews," she instructed, peering up at him with raised eyebrows, expression wordlessly stating that she wasn't gonna take any of his shit. "Now's a great time to say your piece and come out, especially after being the Opening Day hero."

Right. The walk-off grand slam he'd hit the day before. He'd totally forgotten about his game-winning hit during the craziness of the past few hours. He probably wasn't the only one who'd done that though. And given how small-minded some assholes in the world were, chances were his sexuality would completely erase all the good he'd done for the team—and the organization as a whole—and he'd be vilified, hated, threatened, and forever seen as a plague on the New York Mets.

Which was why he'd been closeted in the first place.

Derek nodded as he rose to his feet, deciding it was the best way to please her without actually agreeing to anything. Sliding his sunglasses back on his face, he left her office, a hundred more thoughts added to the million already buzzing through his brain.

* * *

><p>It was as though a plague of locusts had descended upon his apartment building.<p>

Which seemed like an accurate metaphor to Derek, considering the fact that the paparazzo who'd swarmed the entrance to the parking deck were seemingly feasting on him and his life for their own sustenance, unaware and uncaring about how it was slowly killing him.

Maybe he was already dead. He certainly felt like he was, numb and cold and unable to really do anything except go through the very basic motions. A zombie then.

Zombies just made him think of all the movies Stiles made him watch about the half-dead beings and he felt his chest get a little tighter. He hoped the other guy was still there—whether he was locked in the bathroom or not, didn't matter—and that they could talk shit through in a calmer, more rational way.

The other part of him hoped Stiles had taken off to Scott's for a few hours so they wouldn't have to sit around the apartment exchanging expressions of hurt and betrayal. He honestly didn't know if he could handle looking at those pale features and those whiskey eyes and wonder if the younger man had been the one who'd sold him out.

Shit, he kept going back to that, back to the confusion as to whether Stiles had been the "anonymous source" and what that said about their entire relationship.

Obviously it wasn't anything good.

Derek somehow managed to get through the paps, barely able to slide his parking pass into the machine as cameras were shoved in his face and questions were screamed at him. He couldn't make out a single word—other than his name—voices all blending together into a cacophony of madness, a lot like when he was at the plate. Only much, _much_ closer.

He ignored the photogs' cries for his attention, tugging the brim of his cap down further, the sunglasses dulling the flash of camera bulbs snapping pictures of his half-hidden face. He _did_ acknowledge the guard who prevented anyone from passing through with or after Derek's Camaro, the uniformed man reminding them that the parking deck was open to residents and invited guests only and that they'd be legally trespassing if they set even one foot past the gate.

Stiles' Jeep not being in its space wasn't much of a surprise. Neither was the empty apartment.

Derek wasn't really sure if the note on the kitchen counter was a shock or not, already having halfway anticipated the younger man's absence.

Picking it up, he unfolded the sheet of paper, recognizing the familiar all-caps scrawl that made up Stiles' handwriting.

'_When you find out who to trust, come find me. Until then, I'm done. I'll get the rest of my stuff on your first road trip next week then leave the key with the doorman. -S._'

The ending was a punch to the gut. No 'love', no cheesy hearts or 'XOXO', no 'good luck' or 'goodbye' or 'have a good life'. He didn't even put his full name, just an 'S', like Derek didn't deserve any more than that.

Refolding the paper, he put it back where he'd found it, as though that would help him pretend he hadn't seen it, pretend Stiles hadn't left, pretend he hadn't just been dumped by a note that had been scribbled on a sheet that had '_grocery list_' preprinted across the top. Because Stiles had been in such a hurry to leave that he hadn't bothered grabbing the pad out the drawer that they used to leave each other messages; he'd just torn a piece off the one that sat magnetized to the side of the fridge.

Derek stepped back from the counter and its life-altering note, pressing a clenched fist to the center of his chest. His head was spinning more than ever, ribcage too tight to hold in his pounding heart. He knew his hands were shaking only because he saw them do it as he pulled out his phone, feeling strangely numb and detached from his own body.

Looking down, he wondered why the hell he'd even grabbed his cell in the first place.

His boots scuffed loudly against the hardwood floor as he made his way to the living room, dropping down onto the couch. Stiles had picked the set out, having decided they needed the biggest, fluffiest, comfiest ones possible, "an L-shaped one so we can get all stretched out and cuddle when watching TV and movies and shit". He'd also decided they immediately needed to break it in with a quickie when it'd been delivered and set up and Derek still couldn't look at the matching loveseat without thinking of the hour they'd spent trying to clean up come stains, Stiles laughing the entire time.

He shoved the memories away, deciding a distraction of sorts was in order. Unlocking his phone revealed nearly two dozen voicemails and he mentally cringed, remembering the reason why everyone would feel the need to get in touch with him.

His mom was the first message, her voice calming and soothing, settling something inside while also making him incredibly homesick. She told him how sorry she was that he was dealing with all that, that she hated how he'd been forced out by a pack of vultures and that she knew he had to be hurting, ending it with a reminder that he could call any time, day or night.

Next was his older sister Laura, who threatened to sue the mag and that she had a colleague get transferred to NYC if he needed a good lawyer, to dial her up if and when he needed to rant. In the meantime, she was looking into invasion of privacy statutes in New York.

His younger sister Cora was flat out pissed, screaming and swearing as though she'd been the one whose life had been flipped on its head. She wrapped it up with a request to borrow his spare bats so she could "_beat the shit outta that Matt Daehler fuckhole_".

The majority of the remaining messages were from teammates, both former and current, all offering support. McCall left one wondering why Stiles had shown up crying, followed a few voicemails later by a "_never mind. And no fuckin' way did Stiles do that!_", joined by a promise to talk the guy down.

Derek wasn't sure if he wanted the pitcher to succeed on that front.

There was also a voicemail from the Mets GM Deucalion, informing him that the organization wasn't going to make any public comments on the "incident" and that they still supported Derek if and when he decided to officially come out.

He deleted all of them.

Slumping down on the couch, Derek felt himself sinking into the cushions, staring straight ahead at nothing. The gas fireplace was unlit, unnecessary on a warm April afternoon, and the flatscreen TV fixed to the wall above it was off. Normally Stiles would have the thing blasting with video game explosions and gunfire, some forensics show he'd DVR'd, the next episode of _Dexter_ from the Netflix queue. He'd be smack-talking ESPN for its lack of baseball highlights on _SportsCenter_, booing teams he hated on MLB Network's _Quick Pitch_ as it gave rundowns of the previous day's games, rehashing whatever issues he'd had with the umps from the last Mets one.

The silence was god-awful. It was a stark reminder of the missing presence from the apartment, a blatant sign of who wasn't there. The place hadn't been that quiet since Stiles had moved in, even at night—the guy even talked in his damn sleep. So the apartment being so devoid of sound was not only eerie as hell but another slap in the face making him all the more aware of what had gone down and who had left because of it.

Unable to stand it, Derek quickly dialed a familiar number, putting his cell to his ear and hoping like hell there was an answer.

It took only two rings before it was picked up.

"_Sweetheart. Hey._"

"Hey, Mom," he breathed out, feeling a weight being lifted off his shoulders. His eyes fell closed and he was mentally back home in SoCal, sitting at her kitchen table, mug of hot cocoa in his hands as he talked about what was bothering him at that moment.

What he wouldn't give to be fifteen again.

Maybe sixteen, that way he could drive.

But either way, problems that felt like the end of the world when he was a teen seemed like practically nothing compared to what he was dealing with at that time.

Hopefully in ten years, his current issues would seem like nothing, too.

"_How you holding up?_" His mom's voice was soft, soothing, and he could perfectly picture the sympathetic look on her face, the sad smile, the downturned edges of her eyes, the light in the blue orbs that wordlessly spoke of a desire to take away all that was hurting her child.

He'd really lucked out when it came to moms. Only seemed fair considering his dad had been taken away from him far too early.

A sigh slipped past his lips, head tilting down and staring at his fingers rubbing the rough denim of his jeans. "Honestly?" he began, pausing to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. "Not sure I am. Everything happened so fast, I don't think my mind or emotions have caught up."

"_Aww, sweetie,_" his mom cooed and he really wished he was home, feeling her run her fingers through his hair as she spoke those words. "_At least you have Stiles there to help you get your head and emotions straight._"

Hearing his boyfriend's—_ex_-boyfriend's name was like the ice encasing him thawing out. All the emotions that had been stuck frozen inside came pouring out in a rush, unable to be stopped. Bending over with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, he cried like a baby on the phone with his mom.

* * *

><p>The news of Derek's "gay scandal" had gone viral.<p>

It happened pretty much as soon as the paper had hit the stands, but he wasn't truly aware of it 'til mid-afternoon. Despite his better judgment, he still found himself browsing gossip sites and checking social media. He was a trending topic on both Twitter and Tumblr, not really a first for him, but definitely the first time it'd happened due to personal reasons and not because of something he'd done on the field.

TMZ was the first to report who the "mystery man" in the photos was, breaking the news that it was Derek's roommate Stiles Stilinski and inadvertently creating more rumors and gossip about the exact nature of their relationship.

Perez Hilton posted a video of himself practically squealing with delight over the news and stating that if Derek and Stiles weren't serious, he could call up the gossip blogger.

Derek closed his internet browser, spending the next couple hours staring at a blank Word doc and willing his statement to write itself. Didn't work, but it also didn't stop him from trying.

Because he honestly had no fucking clue what to say.

Okay, not entirely true. He knew what he was _supposed_ to say, just not _how_ to say it. "_Whoops! Guess you guys caught me. BTW, I'm bi_" just didn't seem to cut it. Although really, that was pretty much how Stiles would handle it, were the situation reversed.

Slumping back in his office chair, Derek tore his eyes away from his laptop screen and the cursor that seemed to be mocking him. Probably a mistake, considering the green orbs were now staring at a framed photo of himself and Stiles on a beach near Port St. Lucie, Florida, the month before. Derek had been down there for spring training, Stiles on spring break, and the student had dragged him to the ocean on a day off, deciding he needed to visit a beach at least once on his trip and that the athlete needed a day away from the ballpark.

Later that night while snuggled in bed, Derek had asked Stiles how he'd come out if he were Derek.

"Twitter," the student had stated bluntly, playing with the other man's fingers, head on a toned chest. "I'd send out a tweet saying '_Yeah I'm bi, yeah I'm with a dude, yeah I'm still gonna kick ass at Citizen's Bank Park. Hashtag-LGM._"

"LGM?"

"Let's Go Mets," Stiles had explained in a duh manner before hitting his boyfriend's stomach with the back of his hand. "Learn your team's hashtags, dude."

Derek cut the flashback off, not wanting to think about the disappointment that had appeared on Stiles' face when he explained that he'd asked out of curiosity and not because he'd been thinking of coming out. 'Course the younger man had quickly recovered and once again pointed out that he'd support the athlete no matter what. Recent events painted that moment in a different color now though.

Sighing, Derek closed the Word doc and opened the internet browser once again, clicking the bookmark for Twitter. He didn't hesitate, pretty much out of time at this point, not allowing him the opportunity to second guess or think of the consequences. He simply clicked the text box and began typing up a new tweet.

'_Yes, I'm bi. Yes, I'm in love with a guy. Yes, I'll still kick Braves' ass tomorrow. #LGM._'

Tweet sent, he shut the laptop down and put his iPhone on airplane mode, not giving himself the chance to think twice and delete it. Instead, he got up and shuffled to his room, shooting Kate a quick text that he'd handled it. That job done, he put the device face down on his nightstand, focusing everything on heading to the bathroom to try and shower the day away.


	3. Part 3

_**A/N: **__Any shows mentioned are property of their respective channels and network executives. Any groups and charities mentioned belong to whoever owns them. Anything else I missed, sorry, but they are owned by those people._

* * *

><p>Waking up alone in bed was weird.<p>

Not that Derek hadn't done it before, or didn't still do it. He didn't share a bed on the road or during spring training—minus the week of Stiles' spring break trip and that one time he woke up hungover and tangled amongst McCall, Lahey, and a relief pitcher named Mahealani, all in similar states of post-drunken stupor.

But waking up alone in _his_ bed in _his_ apartment was weird. Because for two years, the familiar sights, scents, and feel of his mattress meant Stiles was shuffling in his sleep right beside him or grumbling at Derek to shut off the alarm and explaining how there was a reason why he didn't sign up for morning classes.

Yet, on that day, there was no shuffling, no grumbling, no Stiles.

Nothing really drove a break-up home like an empty left side of the bed.

He sat staring at the unoccupied space for several long moments, scowling at the still folded sheet, the flat pillowcase, the lack of sprawled out Stiles.

He hated his bed.

Getting up, he shuffled to the bathroom and did his business, purposely keeping his gaze away from the bed when he re-entered the main part of the master suite. Grabbing his iPhone, he slowly made his way to the kitchen, in no hurry to see the other empty rooms but unable to stand being around his lonely bed.

Countless texts waited for him and he scrolled through them all as he waited for his Keurig machine to warm up. He had messages from teammates—current and former—people in the Mets front office, family members, all congratulating him on coming out, all saying how proud they were, how they support him no matter what. Even Sheriff Stilinski had shot him a text, making Derek wonder if Stiles had told him about their break-up. Didn't really seem like he had.

Interesting.

The only message that wasn't full of love and support came from Kate declaring that his tweet wasn't what she had in mind when she told him he needed to come up with a statement. He felt a brief pang of regret that he couldn't see her pinched angry face when she saw it.

He switched the TV on to combat the silence, still not used to the quiet. He wasn't sure if he ever would be. Or if he'd even _want_ to be.

SNY was airing something about the Knicks so he switched over to ESPN, having no real interest in basketball. _SportsCenter_ was on and he let the anchors drone on as he set about making his usual game-day breakfast of oatmeal with a couple scoops of protein powder.

The top stories were being repeated by the time he was seated on the couch with his food, his coming out being the biggest one, leading to a roundtable discussion on homosexuality in sports and how he'd changed the face of the MLB. A similar conversation was happening on _Mike and Mike in the Morning_ over on ESPN2 and he quickly gave up on that channel as well.

MLB Network was thankfully going to commercials, giving him a few moments of peace to eat. He got halfway through his breakfast when _Quick Pitch_ returned, recapping the previous day's Dodgers-Padres game.

Immediately followed by the two hosts chatting about the biggest story in the MLB: New York Mets shortstop Derek Hale coming out as bisexual.

He switched the TV off.

His appetite was gone, but he forced himself to finish eating, knowing he'd need the protein and energy for the game later. After rinsing his dishes, putting everything in the dishwasher, and making a second cup of coffee, he settled back on the couch. Boredom took over and against his better judgment, he decided to check Twitter.

He'd never seen so many notifications in his life.

Derek's coming out tweet had nearly a million RTs and just as many favorites. He had countless tweets congratulating him from all around the MLB, from various teams and players, from different Mets related Twitter accounts—including the official one—even Mr Met himself. He had hundreds from his fans, even people claiming they didn't root for him or his team, several dozen from baseball and sports reporters, endless sports accounts from TV shows to websites to magazines. He received endless support from LGBTQ groups, such as GLAAD, GLSN, NoH8, just to name a few, as well as gay athlete support organizations like You Can Play and Out Sports.

He scrolled through them all, rolling his eyes at the cliché jokes of "shortstop isn't Derek Hale's only position; he also plays pitcher and/or catcher". He smiled at the comments of "it doesn't matter what team you play for, you're still a Met!" He got choked up at young athletes calling him their new idol and role model and inspiring them to come out.

Then, of course, was the hate.

For every four positive mentions, there was a negative one, comments ranging from the immature—"no wonder he's so good at handling bats and balls"—to the bigoted—he lost count of the number of times he saw the word "fag"—to the downright scary. People got way too creative with the death threats.

He knew he shouldn't look, knew he should ignore it all and not give the assholes any attention, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from any of it, a sick desire to read every one and take it all in. And while it was all the same shit he'd heard growing up—declarations that he was going to hell and that he was a sinner and that he was going to pay for his evil ways—it still hit a nerve. Especially when he saw the comments that he had corrupted that poor young man he'd dragged onto the elevator and forced his deviousness upon.

And yet he still read all that shit, that proverbial car crash that he stared at more than the road itself.

Although really, a car crash metaphor felt oddly apt, considering how it felt like his entire life had been wrecked and totaled the day before, the damage too extensive to fix.

Closing the app, Derek shut his iPhone off and tossed it to the side on the couch. Really, he should be working out, but going to the gym—despite there being one located in the building—just didn't sound all that appealing. He'd just head to the ballpark earlier and use the gym there.

Then again, there'd be people there, too, meaning another risk of conversation and having to discuss shit he really didn't want brought up.

He was being a pussy. Seriously. He could go in the batter's box against Halladay, Kershaw, Wainwright, dominant pitchers who could make him look like a major dumbass with one well-placed pitch, yet he couldn't hold a simple conversation with his teammates.

So fucking lame.

He wished he cared.

Instead, he sprawled out on the couch watching a _Bones_ marathon and pretending Stiles was on the other end of the settee, alternating his attention between the TV and his homework as he was prone to do.

Which, really, was even more lame of Derek. Not to mention totally pathetic.

Around one, Derek finally dragged his ass off the couch and into the bedroom to gather his stuff. It felt weird not to have another person hovering in the room, splayed out on the bed, yammering about whatever random thing came to his mind, all the while still managing to remind the athlete of what he still needed to grab. The situation felt even weirder when he realized he'd be leaving without any well wishes or good luck kisses and smacks to the ass.

He wasn't gonna get another one ever. Not from Stiles anyway.

He wasn't sure he wanted one from anyone else.

Okay, the ass slaps were gonna happen. It was as much a part of baseball as the diamond bases and stitched balls. But there wasn't gonna be anyone else holding his face, staring him right in the eye and assuring him that he was gonna kick ass. Not with the same heartfelt conviction as Stiles.

Derek rubbed between his pecs, staring down at the phone in his hand, seriously contemplating calling him. Since he'd been with Stiles, he'd never left for Citi Field without a "good luck" from him. Even on the road, he'd get a text wishing him well sometime before the game was scheduled to start. But at that moment? He had nothing.

And it wasn't that he wanted to call for a "good luck", wasn't that he needed it out of some sort of superstitious bullshit. He really just wanted to hear the guy's voice. It was something he hadn't heard since—

Since their argument. The one where Derek had accused Stiles of selling him out to the media and the college student had stormed off after a hate-filled "fuck you" left his lips.

Dammit.

He pocketed his cell, deciding against calling his boyfriend—_ex_-boyfriend. Fuck, they'd broken up. It was over between them, done, finished, ended. All because of the belief that the younger guy had betrayed him.

Shit, he was a moron. Because no way would Stiles do that. He was too nice, too pure of soul, too stubbornly loyal it was almost annoying.

But still Derek had that tiny nagging doubt in the back of his mind that continuously pointed out a lack of means or motive for anyone else. The evidence might've been circumstantial, but it made Stiles seem pretty damn guilty.

He needed to not marathon crime shows. It was screwing with his thinking.

Shoving everything aside, he slipped his sunglasses on and put on Stiles' NYU cap, refusing to think about how he was pretty much using it as a crutch of sorts and what he'd do when the younger man showed up to get the rest of his stuff.

Yeah. _Definitely_ not thinking that last part. The apartment felt empty enough with just some missing clothes and toiletries.

Not to mention a missing occupant.

Baseball cap firmly in place, Derek grabbed his duffel and headed out, bracing himself for another paparazzi swarm. Facing those vultures was way better than being by himself in that apartment.

* * *

><p>Citi Field's gym was thankfully empty, letting Derek get through his work-out in peace. He managed to have a solid hour of weightlifting to himself, followed by a quick shower, before the team's manager, Finstock, appeared and informed him that his presence had been requested by Deucalion.<p>

The meeting went by quickly, the GM reassuring his player that the New York Mets organization supported him no matter what, asking if there was anything he needed. Derek told them the truth, that there wasn't really anything, adding that he'd probably be avoiding the media for a while. Deucalion had sighed and removed his glasses, reiterating that hiding from the media wasn't a solution and that he had to talk to them eventually. The shortstop simply nodded then excused himself to get ready for warm-ups.

The atmosphere in the clubhouse was exactly the same as it always was, dubstep music blasting from Lahey's locker, Whittemore bragging about his performance on the field as Mahealani rolled his eyes, Boyd stoically giving batting tips to the rookie Dunbar. But most of all, no one treated Derek any differently. He got the same head bobs, the same back slaps, the same "hey"s he received any other time he walked in the clubhouse. No one ostracized him or gave him dirty looks or called him any hateful names. There were no suddenly ended convos or homophobic slurs coughed into anyone's hands.

Exactly the same.

Derek exhaled in relief as he reached his locker, tension leaving his muscles with the air. Yeah, some of his teammates had texted him messages of support and congratulations but not all of them. And it was always easy to act a certain way over a text and another way in person, to not actually believe or mean the words you were typing.

But his teammates had all been genuine. None of them had any issues with Derek's sexuality and none were making his "media scandal" into a clubhouse issue. It was like he'd been given a safe haven to escape it all, a place where he could forget about the photos, the break-up, the coming out, a place where he could just be the same ol' Derek Hale he'd always been and focus solely on his job.

He loved his teammates. He really truly did.

"You look like shit."

Even McCall and his never-ending flattery.

The shortstop didn't look at the pitcher, eyes focused on his large cubby as he toed off his sneakers and put them on a shelf. "Thanks, McCall."

The younger male leaned his side against the locker to Derek's right—Boyd's in all technicality, although the first baseman wasn't near them at the moment.

McCall folded his arms over his chest, already dressed in his snow white uni pants and a plain orange tee, despite not participating in warm-ups or batting practice. His face was uncharacteristically serious, brow drawn in a hard line, uneven jaw tense, chocolate eyes grave as he stared at his teammate. "Stiles does, too," he added bluntly.

Derek swallowed hard at the mention of his boyfri—_ex_-boyfriend's name, eyes trained down as he unbuttoned his jeans, avoiding the other man's analytical gaze. Of course McCall would suddenly locate the focus he only really seemed to have while pitching at that moment.

"Okay" was the shortstop's flat response, tugging his jeans off and slinging them on a spare hanger before focusing on putting his cup and boxer briefs on.

"You need to talk to him," McCall stated in a tone that was too forceful to be a suggestion yet too weak to be a command. "Seriously. He didn't have anything to do with that pap and this fight is dumb."

Derek felt the tension return to his muscles, yanking his uni pants down with more force than necessary and shoving his legs in them. So much for his safe haven. Seemed like he couldn't escape his problems no matter where he went.

"I really don't wanna talk about this," he confessed, pulling his pants all the way up.

Apparently point out his lack of desire to discuss his personal life was a cue to keep going, because that's exactly what McCall did, totally ignoring what had actually been said. It was a habit either he'd picked up from Stiles, or Stiles had picked up from him. No matter the case, it was annoying, especially considering Derek's own habit of keeping shit to himself.

"Look," the pitcher began, hand held out as though that would actually make his teammate do as requested. "You guys are both clearly upset an—"

"McCall!" Derek snapped, head jerking to the younger male, scowl on his face that softened to a more pleading expression. "I _really_ don't wanna talk about this. I get that you mean well and wanna stick up for your friend, but I—"

"Because he's innocent!" McCall interrupted, pushing himself away from Boyd's cubby. His eyes were sparkling, wide, as he passionately pleaded his friend's case. "Stiles is annoyingly, stubbornly loyal to a fault and the most genuinely good, kindest, sweetest person ever and he just doesn't have it in him to betray someone like that, especially not a person he loves."

The shortstop didn't say anything, just kept his head tilted down as he concentrated on putting his belt on. He knew what the other guy was saying was true, that Stiles was loyal and good and kind. But as for the rest of it...

"Anyone is capable of doing anything," he pointed out flatly, buckling his belt. "You can never truly fully know someone."

"But I do. I know Stiles and so do you and you know he couldn't and wouldn't do this." The pitcher exhaled, the fire leaving him as his shoulders slumped. His face fell and he turned the full force of his puppy dog look on his teammate, making the older man realize how a relative nobody in the sports world had managed to score a date with the granddaughter of one of the biggest agents in the biz.

Shit.

"Just talk to him," McCall pleaded, the last puppy left at the pound.

Derek slipped his batting practice jersey off its hanger, holding the slightly rough cotton in his hands, staring down at the blue material. For so long, he'd been afraid that his sexuality would cost him his job and deny him the one thing he truly loved: playing baseball. He'd sorta been right. Except there were two things—outside his family, of course—he cared more about than life itself. He'd lost one, leaving him with the sport he'd grown up playing.

He knew he should be glad, should feel lucky that he still had that, yet without Stiles at his side cheering him on, it all felt empty and hollow, the sport no longer enough to make him happy.

But the shit he'd accused Stiles of doing, the hurt and betrayal on his face, the words that'd been thrown about. How the fuck were they supposed to get over all that and move on? There was no way the student would even want to see him, much less talk shit out.

"It's not that easy," he murmured.

"Yes, it is," McCall argued, fire back in his narrowed eyes, anger in his tensed up jaw. "You're just too fucking stubborn and proud to admit you're wrong and apologize. You'd rather act like an asshole and make Stiles feel like shit for breaking up with you even though you totally fucking deserved it."

Slipping his arms through the jersey's sleeves, Derek finally turned his head and looked at his teammate, discovering a completely pissed off and glaring pitcher standing there.

"Stop being a dick and talk to him," McCall ordered, finger pointed at the shortstop in warning. "You owe it to him to do that much." Having said what he wanted, the other guy walked off, footsteps heavier than usual as his sneakers hit the carpet.

Derek sighed, buttoning up his jersey, McCall's words an angry buzz in his head. He hated that the pitcher was right about Stiles, about how the guy wasn't capable of selling someone out like that. But talking wouldn't fix shit, not for Derek at least. Because if they _were_ to work it out and get back together, he'd still be left with the unanswered question of who really _had_ tipped off Matt Daehler at the _New York Post_. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to fully relax and trust anyone until he knew and chances were he'd take it out on Stiles, let it affect how he saw the other man.

Again.

No. Until he knew who the "anonymous source" was, he was better off leaving his... his ex-boyfriend alone. Otherwise they'd end up right back at their current place.

Shit. Everything just sucked at that moment.

"Woman troubles?" came a faux-sympathetic voice on his left. "Or man troubles? Either-or."

Derek turned the full force of his glare on Whittemore's smug face. "Go fuck yourself," he snarled, snatching his batting practice cap off the shelf and stalking off.

He'd never looked forward to hitting balls so much in his life.

* * *

><p>There were so many signs being held up during batting practice that Derek actually thought he'd missed a promo for the next Banner Day.<p>

Until he took a closer look at all of them.

Countless posters showing him support were on full display, rainbow flags with his name, number, and face on them. Above the Mets' dugout he noted a "_NY Still Hearts Hale_" poster. Near the back of that section, fans held up a sign declaring "_Hale yes we support U!_". An upper deck above left field found its sponsor's ad covered by a long banner stating that "_True Mets Fans Support Hale._"

He made sure to give those fans a smile and a wave, reminding himself that it wasn't their fault he'd been outed against his will. He needed to be grateful for them, to show them as much love as they were showing him. They could've just as easily turned around and hated him for the lies and the secrecy, could've just as easily made posters declaring their hatred of him.

Just like some other folks at Citi Field had.

"_M-L-B, not G-A-Y!_" "_No fags in baseball!_" "_NY Queers_" written in Mets script. It was a lot like the hate tweets he'd received, that same car wreck he couldn't tear his eyes away from as his teammates took turns in the cage.

Boyd stepped closer, nudging him with a broad shoulder to gain his attention. Derek turned his head and looked up at the larger male, noting the usual stoic expression on his face as he stared straight ahead, motioning in that same direction with his head.

Derek took the hint and focused on what was in front of him, watching Whittemore taking his cuts. It wasn't easy, but ignoring the hate was the best thing for his sanity. And it wasn't like he hadn't known it was gonna happen, especially after scrolling through his Twitter mentions that morning. Still. Knowing it was coming and having it in his face were two totally different things and pretending he didn't notice it was an action that was easier said than done.

He just hoped to the baseball gods that he played well that night. He didn't need to give those assholes any more ammunition.

* * *

><p>Playing a game was exactly what Derek needed. Because playing was a total escape from reality. He could completely ignore the real world, all the drama and problems that came with it. He was able to just shut off his head and all the bullshit swirling around in it and just focus on the task at hand.<p>

His every at-bat was met with thunderous applause that had an undercurrent of boos with it, and he'd wondered how much of the cheers was for his previous game and how much was a way for the fans to show they still loved and supported him.

Then he'd shut off his thought process and focus on the pitch about to come at him,

Overall, he'd had a good game, going two-for-three with a walk and an RBI. The Mets, unfortunately, lost the game, making the walk from the dugout to the clubhouse seem longer.

The mood in the clubhouse was a somber one, Finstock giving his usual post-loss tirade to the team at large. Derek didn't hear any of it, mind too busy imagining the vitriol he'd surely find in his Twitter mentions, the team's loss blamed on him and his sexuality. Then he thought about how members of the media were waiting on the other side of the clubhouse doors, waiting to swarm in and demand statements on his sexuality, on the photos, on Stiles, asking nothing about the game itself.

Vultures, just like his mom had said.

Finstock wrapped up his rant/ramble hybrid, signaling to the clubhouse attendant that it was safe to open the doors. Derek stripped faster than ever, towel quickly wrapped around his waist. He muttered a rushed "no comment" to a journalist who came close, recorder shoved in the athlete's face, before speeding to the showers in order to avoid the rest of the media melee.

* * *

><p>He watched the post-game show when he got to the apartment, not having bothered to take it off the DVR queue. Usually he wouldn't watch it, not after a loss, but the place was too empty and quiet again and he needed something familiar to calm his buzzing brain.<p>

If he happened to be cuddling a giant throw pillow while doing so, then so be it. Wasn't like there was anyone around to judge him for it anyway.

The show dedicated a segment to Derek's coming out, complete with sound bites given by his teammates after the game. There was Boyd's stoic and wise "_Hale's personal life is his and it's not my place to comment on it_", then Lahey's smirking "_His sexuality doesn't matter to me. He's still an awesome player and teammate and I love playing with him._" Whittemore had his usual bored I'm-so-above-all-of-this attitude as he blatantly told reporters that he just didn't care and "_what Hale does off the field is his deal and doesn't concern me._" Scott wore his usual goofy, dimpled grin and earnest puppy dog eyes, not showing that he'd told Derek off earlier in the day.

"_Gay, straight, bi, it's fine by me,_" the pitcher commented. "_As long as he keeps playing the way he does, he can date anyone he wants._" A second or two later, his face grew serious, eyes locking onto the camera. "_As long as they're legal and consenting, of course._"

The show's hosts chimed in with their own opinions, both seeming to agree that Derek's sexuality wasn't an issue with them and that his on-field stats should be the only thing that mattered. One of the analysts launched into a spiel about how a player's personal life didn't matter at all when he played and that today's era of social media and gossip pages had ruined all that, making a mockery of an athlete's right to privacy. And while Derek wholeheartedly agreed, he couldn't watch anymore. He was just too damn tired.

Rising to his feet, he switched the TV off and shuffled to his room, checking his phone as he went. He had several texts from his family congratulating him on a good game, his mom adding on an apology for the Mets not winning. Not that he cared. All he could focus on was the one person who hadn't shot him a message.

Stiles.

It took more time and effort to strip down than it should have, mind and body both exhausted from the past two days. Crawling into bed, he snuggled Stiles' pillow close and hated himself for ruining their relationship. It might not have been perfect, but it'd been theirs and he'd had Stiles and that had been enough to make him happy. He wondered if he'd ever feel happy again.

As he tossed and turned and struggled to fall asleep, Derek realized the answer was a firm "no".


	4. Part 4

_**A/N: **__Any shows mentioned are property of their channels. The _New York Post_ is property of its publisher. Anything else mentioned belongs to whomever._

* * *

><p>Waking up alone for the second day in a row wasn't any easier than it had been on the first. If anything, it was harder, reality setting in even further, continuing to drive home the fact that Stiles was gone and not coming back.<p>

That whole "time heals all wounds" thing was bullshit really.

Derek ate alone, a _NCIS_ marathon playing on TV, lethargic in his motions. He cleaned up on autopilot, feeling a sharp pang in his chest at the realization that he didn't have enough dishes to start the dishwasher. Because only one person had been eating in that apartment.

Shit had to be bad if he was feeling depressed over dirty dishes.

Hell, everything was making him depressed, his entire apartment full of sights that might as well have been giant flashing signs advertising that "_STILES ISN'T HERE!_" The half-full dishwasher. The Beacon County Sheriff Department mug not sitting in the sink. The throw pillows on the right places on the couch. The still-made half of the bed. The toothpaste squeezed at the end rather than the middle. The lack of floss hanging over the edge of the trash can because Stiles was running late to class—again—and hadn't bothered trying to put it in the actual bin.

Yeah, staring at that was probably a bad idea. Not to mention a little weird and obsessive.

Although checking out his reflection in the mirror wasn't all that great a plan either. His usually well-kept scruff was in need of a trim. Dark circles were highly visible under his eyes, skin paler than usual and making them stand out even more. His black hair was standing in every possible direction, unstyled and uncombed.

Basically, he looked like shit. His mom would call it "Recently Dumped Not-So-Chic", but that seemed way nicer than he deserved.

Heaving a sigh, he started brushing his teeth, avoiding his reflection. He was halfway done when the buzzer sounded throughout his apartment, alerting him to a guest at the front door of the building. Spitting toothpaste into the sink, he padded barefoot to the door, pressing the button on the intercom when he reached it.

"Hello?"

"_Derek_" came a slightly timid female voice that seemed vaguely familiar. "_It's Allison._"

He was glad he'd already spat out the toothpaste, otherwise it would've ended up all over the speaker. "Allison?" he double-checked dubiously. "What're you doing here?"

"_I need to talk to you._"

Derek frowned in confusion, staring down at the toothbrush he still held. Allison was nice and he liked her, but he wouldn't call her a friend. Casual acquaintance, maybe. He sometimes talked to her at Strawberry's after games, exchanged pleasantries if he ran into her at the Argent Group offices, but they never really spoke outside of that, never really got in contact with each other.

Until that moment, apparently.

And as he kept staring at his toothbrush, the reasoning hit him. His had been the only one in the cup, Stiles having taken his when he left. Judging by McCall's voicemails, it was easy to assume the student was staying with his best friend, who happened to share an apartment with his girlfriend.

Allison.

Swallowing hard and tasting mint, he pressed the talk button and spoke. "If this is about Stiles, then I don't wanna hear it from you either."

"_It's not!_" she insisted, pausing briefly before rambling. "_Not really anyway. I just really need to show you something I found yesterday and it's pretty important and that's why I came here first thing this morning._"

His curiosity was getting the better of him, finger hovering over the button to unlock the front door. But the "not really" stopped him short, worry plaguing his mind. It could be translated as her passing on a message _from_ Stiles rather than about and he wasn't sure he could handle that, too afraid to risk it. After recent events, it was hard to know who to trust anymore. And considering how well he _didn't_ know Allison, she was on the list of questionable people.

His finger moved an inch to the right, depressing the talk button again. "Did he put you up to this?" he questioned, grimacing at how his words sounded like an accusation.

"_He has no clue I'm here. Scott either. They both think I headed into work early._"

Derek nodded, forgetting she couldn't see him. As much as he didn't know her enough to trust her, he also didn't know enough to _not_ trust her. And really, the best way to get over this entire fucking thing was to slowly start putting faith in people, starting with the small things. Like believing someone when they said they just wanted to show him something and talk to him without any prompting from a third party.

With a quick "all right" spoken through the intercom, he buzzed her up.

The toothbrush was rinsed and returned to its usual place before he threw a random white v-neck tee on, deciding to just stay in his sweatpants for the moment. Changing into jeans took time and effort that he wasn't really willing to give. Besides, she was showing up at pro-athlete's place at nine-thirty on a game day. She should be glad he was awake, much less clothed.

By the time he shuffled back to the living room, Allison was knocking on the door. He opened it up and invited her in with a sweep of the arm, using the same gesture to wordlessly tell her to take a seat.

She gave him a weak smile as she passed, dimple forming on each cheek. Her hands clutched tightly at a black leather strap that lay over her shoulder, like whatever was held inside the briefcase pertained to national security or held the crown jewels. And with the tense way she held her muscles and the tightness around her eyes, he wouldn't be surprised if she pulled out the original Declaration of Independence.

"So," he started, sinking down onto the couch as she slowly lowered herself onto the matching loveseat. "What'd you need to show me?"

Allison placed the bag on her lap, hands clasping the top in a white knuckle grip. She pressed her lips together in a hard line, chocolate eyes flitting around the room, like she was trying to find her lines hidden on the walls or the furniture. Apparently, they weren't there, since she turned her focus on him and nodded once.

"Okay. So," she started then stopped, taking a deep breath before continuing. "You know how I intern at my dad's agency, right?"

Derek slouched down, arms folded over his chest in a casual manner, legs splayed. Clearly it was gonna be a long story, so he might as well make himself comfortable. "Yeah. That's how you met McCall."

The mention of her boyfriend brought a small grin to her face, eyes sparkling, a little of the tension leaving her. "Right. Well, yesterday I was in my aunt Kate's office while she was out to lunch and I needed to send an email and I didn't realize until it was too late that I was logged into her account. So I went into her sent mail to delete it, that way she wouldn't think I was snooping, and."

She suddenly stopped, eyes dropping to where her hands were playing with her bag straps. A grimace was on her face, the tension back in all her muscles, appearing reluctant to continue on with her story.

But after another deep breath, she soldier on. "And I saw an email to a Matt Daehler at the _New York Post_."

Holy. Shit.

Derek felt his stomach drop, rolling and churning, nausea washing over him in waves. Flopping over his knees, he rubbed his temples, mind buzzing with the implications, everything in him screaming theree was no fucking way...

"I know I shouldn't have opened it," Allison quickly pointed out, sounding guilty and upset by her actions, yet still not entirely remorseful about it. "I know it wasn't any of my business, but my curiosity got the best of me because I know that's the newspaper that outed you and the subject line said she had a big scoop for him."

The air was suddenly sucked out of the apartment. It was the only explanation he could think of for why he so quickly found himself unable to breathe. That, plus the boa constrictor that had wrapped itself around his chest and was squeezing the hell out of him.

Dropping his hands, he let them dangle between his spread knees, watching the way they trembled. It really wouldn't have surprised him if his entire body was in a similar state. Not that he could feel it, given the way his blood now ran cold and his skin had numbed out.

"She, uh." He paused, hating the shakiness in his voice. "She set it up, didn't she?"

"Yeah."

One syllable, barely whispered, and Derek felt everything crash around him. His agent, his fucking _agent_, the person he trusted to handle his career and his future had completely fucking jeopardized both with a single email. He'd been totally blindsided by her actions, his life turned upside down due to inexplicable behavior.

And he'd blamed Stiles for the entire thing.

Oh fuck. _Stiles_.

Derek buried his face in his hands, eyes stinging from tears he was refusing to let fall. He'd fucked up more than he'd originally thought, was a bigger villain than he'd previously believed. No wonder Stiles had blown up like he had, no wonder he'd gotten so pissed and stormed off, no wonder he'd dumped Derek. The athlete would do the same exact thing if he'd been falsely accused of being a backstabbing liar when he'd been nothing but loyal and supportive.

God, Stiles had to hate him. There was no way he couldn't.

Allison cleared her throat awkwardly, more for herself than to gain his attention. "It was a long back and forth sort of thing," she explained, voice thick with emotion, like she'd been hurt by her aunt's actions, too.

And really, chances were she had been. Derek had often heard the younger Argent praising the elder, heard stories about how they were more like sisters than anything, how much Kate had helped her after the death of her mom, how she aspired to be like the agent. Only to find out that the woman she idolized was deceitful and had betrayed her client.

Not exactly a positive role model.

"She told the guy she knew where he could get a story and to wait at your building after the game," Allison continued in the same emotional voice. "There was talk of money, then she congratulated him on the pics and article and praised him on a job well done."

Derek snorted as he sat back on the couch, scrubbing at his face. The entire thing was so fucking out there that he almost couldn't believe it, almost couldn't wrap his head around the fact that this was his life. Seriously, it had to be a joke, a set-up. There had to be hidden cameras somewhere recording him for some prank show. No way was any of it real.

Slapping his hands on his lap, he turned his head and attention to Allison, eyebrow cocked. "Can you prove any of this?" It was his newly found distrusting nature rearing its ugly head, but it needed to be asked. Taking someone's word for it wasn't something he was prone to do any time soon.

She nodded vehemently, tucking hair behind her ear as she opened up her bag and pulled out a flashdrive. "I saved copies on this," she stated, before reaching back in and slipping out a manila folder. "I also printed out copies, forwarded them to my own email address, and took pictures of her laptop screen with my cell in case anyone tries to argue their authenticity."

Both eyebrows raised at that, Derek impressed at how thorough she'd been. "Smart thinking," he praised, taking the folder she held out to him.

A dimpled grin formed on her face as she dropped the flashdrive back into her bag. And as he skimmed the emails she'd printed, he realized why she'd kept such a death grip on it. What he held was proof of Kate's deception, of actions that could get her fired not just by him, but by the entire company, regardless of her dad owning it.

He read the messages through once, then again, feeling his anger rise with each word. It was like his personal life was just some random object for sale—and to the highest bidder, judging by her implication that she had friends at other papers and websites who'd be just as interested in the info she was offering. The way she spoke showed no regard towards Derek as a person or his feelings. She clearly didn't care that he was closeted and not planning on coming out any time soon, only focused on getting his secret exposed for some ulterior motive he couldn't even begin to figure out.

Because, really, what the hell did she stand to gain? At least Stiles had a motive. Kate on the other hand, not so much.

"I need to talk to her," he sighed out, flipping the folder closed and handing it back to Allison.

She slipped it back into her bag, eyes trained downward as she folded the flap over and buckled it in place. "I helped her go over her schedule yesterday and she has the morning completely free. If you were to call and ask to see her, she'd be able to do it pretty much immediately."

Derek nodded, gritting his jaw while leaning back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest again. "Good," he ground out. "'Cause I need to find out what the fuck she was thinking then fire her. I can't have an agent go behind my back like that. She's supposed to be negotiating a contract extension, not negotiating a price on my biggest secret."

"Agreed," she stated, running a hand through dark curls. "I'll go with you and back you up so she doesn't think you're making it up or putting the blame on me because I'm not there to defend myself."

"Thanks." He gave her a weak smile, one she returned.

"And since you're gonna need a new agent," she pointed out, licking her lips before continuing, face all business. "You should probably meet up with Braeden. She's Scott's agent and a total shark when it comes to negotiations, but she's also completely genuine and has only her client's best interests at heart. She's kinda new and not representing a whole lot of people, but that'll only help you really since she'd be better able to give you and your career a lot more attention."

The shortstop shoved a hand through his hair and tugged at the black strands, blowing out a long breath of air. Her advice sounded pretty good and he remembered hearing about McCall's damn good extension, despite not being in the majors that long. If Braeden had managed to get that deal done, she was obviously great at her job and the person he wanted representing him, too.

Dropping his hand onto his lap, he murmured his assent before giving Allison another small smile. "Thanks. For all of this."

She gave him a friendly grin, shrugging a shoulder to wordlessly say it was no big deal. "I'm also kinda doing this for Stiles," she admitted with a quick apologetic wince. "He's practically Scott's brother and I hate seeing him so depressed."

Derek's gaze lowered to his lap, eyes turning down at the corners, chest getting tight at the mention of his... _ex_-boyfriend's name. Guilt made him nauseous once again and he still couldn't believe he ever thought Stiles had outed him.

"Plus," Allison went on, tone more cheery than it had been the entire time she'd been in his place. "If this helps you guys work things out and get back together, then I get my apartment back and can make out with my boyfriend whenever I want." A huge grin broke out on her face, dimples as deep as they go. She bit her bottom lip, eyebrows wagging in a suggestive manner, naughty sparkle in brown eyes.

A huff of laughter gusted out his curved lips, knowing all too well what it's like having a house guest and needing to cut back on the PDA-like behavior.

Then again, it probably wasn't exactly the same, considering his guests tended to be his sisters or his cousin Malia, not a recently broken up friend who wouldn't be able to handle witnessing anything even remotely couple-like.

And Stiles had suddenly become single because of Derek's stupidity.

Fuck.

Flopping over his knees, he buried his face in his hands and breathed out a swear, anxiety kicking into high gear over the thought of talking to Stiles. Funny. That used to make him excited and overjoyed, but his stomach was flipping for a totally different reason now.

A slender hand rubbed his shoulder blades in a soothing manner and he let out a shaky breath.

"One step at a time," Allison suggested in a calming tone. "Text Kate, then you and I can go talk to her. Don't worry about anything else until later, okay?"

Derek nodded as he raised his head, giving her a small grateful smile. He muttered that he needed to change, rising to his feet then shuffling to his bedroom. He focused solely on getting jeans, refusing to think about what was missing from the other side of the closet and why. No, he was only gonna think about Kate and what he was gonna say to her.

Weird how the idea of talking to Stiles was more anxiety-inducing than speaking to a woman so scary she'd been dubbed "The Dragon Agent" by her coworkers. Then again, the outcome of that conversation had been decided and was gonna end with her being fired. His talk with Stiles could go a million different ways—assuming the guy would even agree to talk in the first place.

That outcome just might've been the most worrying of them all.

* * *

><p>Derek and Allison were let into Kate's office immediately upon arrival, the athlete surprised to see Greenberg still manning the assistant's desk. Kate smiled warmly as she greeted her client, the expression faltering as she caught sight of her niece following him and closing the door.<p>

"Allison," Kate stated, confusion in her voice and in the crease of her brows. She lowered herself onto the leather swivel chair behind her desk, smoothing her sleeveless white blouse. Her chocolate eyes narrowed in an analytical way as she watched Derek and Allison seat themselves across from her, the brunette placing her bag on the floor and settling in. "I gotta say, I'm surprised to see you here."

The younger Argent shrugged a shoulder, dark curls bouncing with the action. "Derek asked me to be here, so I'm here." Not entirely the truth, but it didn't matter, not really.

Blonde hair flew as the agent's head snapped to her client, eyebrow cocked. "Really?" she questioned dubiously, getting another shrug. "I was under the impression that this meeting was about you agreeing to a media tour."

"Nope," Derek replied flatly, keeping his poker face on, hiding his amusement at his agent's still puzzled facial expression, at the easygoing smile she was struggling to keep on her face.

"Then what _is_ it about then?"

He lifted his hips off the chair in order to slip out a piece of paper he'd put in the back pocket of his jeans. Unfolding it, he read the typed words, poker face still perfectly in place. "'_I got a lead on a good scoop. If you want to be the first to break a juicy scandal, just wait in the parking deck at this address for Derek Hale after the Mets game. It'll be a career making moment. Just be sure to bring your camera._'"

Kate pursed her lips, narrowed eyes staring down her client. Folding her arms over her chest, she leaned back, chair creaking slightly as it tilted with her. "What is this?"

"This," the shortstop began, refolding the paper and slipping it back where it had been. "Was an email you sent to Matt Daehler at the _New York Post_. You know, the guy who took the photos of me kissing a guy and in turn, broke the story about my sexuality?" He kept his tone light, playful, before growing serious, brow drawn into a hard line. "You set me up."

Silence descended over the room, heavy, thick. Kate flicked her gaze over to her niece, looking the brunette up and down, jaw working in aggravation. She'd clearly figured out how Derek had gotten hold of that email and was none too pleased with the younger female's actions.

Good. Derek wanted her to be pissed, feel violated, so she'd have an iota of an idea of how shitty he felt after seeing those photos.

Allison didn't look the tiniest bit remorseful for betraying her aunt that way. She simply kicked her chin up and held her head high, quirking an eyebrow as though daring Kate to say or do something.

Kate didn't react to her, instead turning her attention back to Derek. A bored expression formed on her face, brows in a flat line, lips slightly twisted to one side, head tilted. "I did you a favor."

The athlete choked out a disbelieving laugh, mouth gaping as he stammered out a response. "Wha—I—_how_?"

Brown eyes were rolled, like the answer was totally obvious and he was a huge moron for not getting that. "You were _boring_, Derek," she pointed out, holding a hand up as she ticked items off on her fingers. "No scandals, no gossip, no rumors outside of your career, nothing. But this?" She leaned forward and tapped a manicured finger against that day's _Post_, against the headline regarding his official coming out on Twitter. "This put you on the front page. Twice. This made you a household name. This helped you become a trending topic on Twitter and Tumblr and whatever million other social media sites that exist. You went from a somewhat well-known player within baseball to an international celebrity like that." She snapped her fingers before refolding her arms and leaning back in the chair once again.

Derek snorted, shaking his head, barely able to believe what he was hearing. A quick glance at Allison's parted lips and wide eyes proved he wasn't the only one. Which he was more than grateful for, sick of feeling like the bad guy. No, turned out he was a fucking pawn in Kate's scheme. Wonderful.

"So, because I was well-behaved off the field, you outed me in the hopes of creating a huge media scandal and making me popular?" he double-checked, not bothering to hide the skepticism or the total lack of comprehension he was feeling.

"Yeah," Kate chuckled out in a 'duh' manner, shrugging a bare shoulder. "It also helps with upcoming contract negotiations."

Confused looks were exchanged between Derek and Allison, he being the one to voice what they both seemed to be thinking. "How the hell do you figure that?"

The agent sighed in exasperation, once again acting as though the two of them should understand without her having to explain it. "It shows the Mets that they need to keep you, that you can be a public face for their franchise and handle the media well, that you can bring the team some attention and put their name out there for reasons other than how terribly they're playing or how yet another big free agent signing isn't living up to their contract."

A devious smirk slowly grew on her face, making her sharp features twist into something more malicious. It was her evil negotiating face, one that often made Derek glad he'd been seated beside her rather than on the receiving end of it.

He'd been right to be wary of it apparently, even if it still wasn't really being directed at him.

"Not to mention," she continued, still smirking, eyes sparkling in an evil sort of delight. "That if they don't give you a good contract—or even don't offer one at all—it makes them seem homophobic."

Allison was the one to bark out a disbelieving laugh this time, Derek stunned silent. He knew Kate was deceptive, immoral, even manipulative. But this? This was beyond what he believed she was even capable of, beyond what he imagined _anyone_ was capable of. It was a whole new level of fucked up.

"You're emotionally blackmailing an entire franchise?" Allison summed up, porcelain features arranged into an expression that was equal parts disgust, disbelief, hurt, and anger.

Kate simply shrugged, apparently not seeing the big deal. Rocking in her white leather chair, Derek had the fleeting thought that she looked like an evil villain, no remorse for her actions, uncaring as to who she hurt in her efforts to get what she wanted. Or whose lives she ruined.

Like Derek's.

And Stiles'.

Fuck. He knew she was shrewd and her methods were deceitful, but he truly had no idea just how terrible she really was. He'd been young when he'd signed with her, eager to get drafted and get to the bigs, and she'd come in like a beautiful fairy godmother promising to make his every wish come true. He hadn't a clue about how that would happen or that her behavior wasn't typical of how agents conducted business. Young and naïve and totally taken advantage of.

But not anymore. Because now he knew better, now he knew that what she did was beyond inappropriate and not only grounds for possible termination, but for having her entire career taken from her.

Just sucked like hell that it cost Derek his relationship and the most important person to him in order for him to finally realize that.

The athlete nodded repeatedly, mind fully made up as he scrunched his face in disgust. "Wow," he breathed out, hand gripping the back of his neck tightly. "Well, thank you for making the decision to fire you so much easier."

Kate's smirked remained as she snorted. "You can't fire me, sweetie."

"Can and did," he declared before turning to Allison, face and voice softer. Her aunt's actions had no bearing on her or how he viewed her. She was an entirely separate person with an entirely separate personality. Where Kate was devious and manipulative and two-faced, Allison was good and kind and genuine. She grinned rather than smirked, features soft rather than sharp, and she never said a bad word about anyone—trash-talk aimed at the Mets' opponents aside.

So yeah, Derek liked Allison. He just wasn't all that fond of her aunt anymore.

"We should actually wrap this up so we can go talk to Braeden," he pointed out, the younger Argent nodding in agreement. Gripping the metal arms of his chair, he pushed himself up, pausing halfway at his agent's—_former_ agent's voice.

"You're gonna sign with _her_?" she questioned doubtfully, eyebrow cocked. "There's no way my dad would be okay with that."

"Actually," Allison spoke up, grabbing her bag and placing it on her lap. "I'm pretty sure Gerard would have no issue with one of his most prominent clients choosing to _not_ sign with another company."

Kate leveled hard eyes at her niece, lips pursed. Derek absently wondered how often she'd given the younger Argent that same look because the grown-ups were having a conversation.

"I don't think Gerard wants said prominent client signing with an agent with so little experience and who isn't used to working with the big names," she snarked.

"And _I_ don't think he'll have a problem with it when I forward him and _my_ dad those emails you sent to Matt Daehler," Allison pointed out, chin held high, defiant look in her chocolate eyes. "And show them the hard copies I printed off, the photos of them I took with my phone, the copies I saved on a flashdrive—"

"Basically," Derek interrupted when he felt as though the point had been made. "Don't bother trying to hide the evidence and claim innocence on this one."

The brunette rose to her feet, the other two occupants of the room doing the same. The smile she wore was pure smugness, dimples on full display, bag now hanging off her shoulder. "Really it would be in your best interest to just let Derek out of his contract with you and sign with Braeden, rather than risk this info getting out and you getting fired."

Derek turned to his former agent, eyebrows raised in expectation. A stare-down was occurring between the two Argent women and he felt a rush of pride aimed towards Allison. She wasn't backing down, even when faced with an intimidating expression that had made bigger men cry. The Dragon Agent at her absolute meanest.

After a long minute or two, Kate huffed, arms folded over her chest, hip cocked. Her jaw was jutted out, rolling around, brown eyes focusing on anything but the two people standing on the opposite side of her desk. She was pissed, steam practically rising off her skin, fire in her eyes. Only Derek wasn't sure if it was because they'd managed to back her into a corner, or because she'd actually lost. Either way, she was about three seconds away from grabbing something heavy and hurling it at their heads.

"Fine," Kate ground out, heaving through gritted teeth. "I'll let you out your contract. Just know that you're making a huge mistake."

The athlete shook his head. "No. I've made a ton of mistakes, sure, but this isn't one of 'em."

With nothing left to say, he turned and exited the office, Allison right behind him. Since she knew the layout better than he did, he allowed her to lead the way to Braeden's office, keeping in step with her.

"Thanks for backing me up," he stated lowly as they turned and headed down another corridor. "I owe you."

Allison grinned, all dimples and shining eyes. "You can make it up to me by talking to Stiles after the game."

That stopped him dead in his tracks. Yeah, he'd already somewhat decided he'd do that very thing after he'd figured out who the "anonymous source" was, giving them a clean slate. But being faced with the reality of actually doing it was scary as hell. Stiles had been pissed, hurt, beyond upset, and all because of Derek. And now the source of all that pain was gonna show up and request a conversation?

Derek would be lucky to not get a bat upside the head.

"Hey." Allison's voice was gentle as she called him back to reality. She was now standing in front of him, holding his hands loosely in her's, eyes soft and sweet as they locked onto his. "You okay?"

"No," he whispered the confession, swallowing hard. "Think maybe you can be there to back me up during that convo, too?" His smile was shaky, knowing there was no chance of that happening. Didn't stop him from asking out of sheer hope.

She rolled her eyes fondly and shook her head, moving her hands to his shoulders. This time, when her eyes locked onto his, they were hard with determination, her inner-warrior making itself known. She was gonna make a kickass agent and Derek found himself a little bummed he couldn't just hire her already. He may not be all that trusting anymore, more cautious when it came to putting faith in other people, but after that day and everything she'd shown and done for him, he definitely trusted her now.

"You handled my aunt Kate, the Dragon Agent," she pointed out. "You can handle Stiles."

He nodded because it felt like the thing to do, almost believing her when she said that, if for no other reason than the finality in her tone and the hardness in her eyes. Only he couldn't really buy what she was saying, mainly because she'd never seen Stiles pissed.

Derek would be lucky to make it out alive.

* * *

><p>Derek's meeting with Baeden couldn't have gone better even if he'd scripted it himself. She was a shark, just like Allison had said, but that just made him respect her. Her intentions were pure with only his best interests in mind, which made him like her.<p>

She outlined her ideas for handling his career, how she'd go about getting a contract extension, the numbers she'd throw out, confident that she'd be able to attain it. She then discussed how she'd deal with his "scandal", rolling his eyes at the term Kate—and the media—used to describe it, suggesting one interview for exclusivity, just get it over and done with so he wouldn't be answering the same questions five-hundred times and dragging the whole thing out. The idea of teaming with You Can Play was also brought up, another action of exclusivity since working with too many groups would ultimately result in him being spread too thin and appearing insincere about whatever cause he was supposed to be backing.

Derek liked her ideas—especially since it avoided his personal life being invaded countless times by countless people—so much so that he signed with her on the spot.

Still didn't mean he wanted to talk to the press after the game.

He played decently, one hit in four at-bats, striking out once. The Mets had won, leading to a jovial clubhouse. But talking to the media before talking to Stiles just didn't sit right with him. Not that he'd be telling them the same exact things, but the point still remained.

His teammates invited him out for drinks and he turned them down, only halfway lying when he told them he wasn't up to going out. They seemed to understand, nodding and telling him to join them at Strawberry's if he changed his mind. Derek just waved and headed out, knowing he wouldn't. He had a conversation to get through and a promise to Allison to keep.

Although a few beers would definitely help.

No. Knowing Stiles, the guy would just get even more upset at Derek being drunk and wouldn't believe anything the athlete would say, thinking it was all totally disingenuous bullshit created by alcohol and that sober Derek wouldn't dare say any of that shit.

So sober it was. Derek just had to hope he had the balls to say what he needed to say. And that Stiles would listen and believe him.

* * *

><p>Thinking about talking to Stiles and actually talking to Stiles were two vastly different things. Standing in front of McCall's apartment door, Derek felt like a little leaguer going up against Justin Verlander during one of his no-hitters.<p>

Basically he was facing the impossible.

He inhaled deeply, holding the air in his lungs and using it to steel his nerves. Then again, he'd probably pass out from oxygen deprivation before he'd manage to find the balls to knock. Really, it'd just be in his best interests to get it over with, to rip the band-aid off, so to speak. He was never one to take the easy route. If he had been, he'd be a history teacher back at his hometown's high school, possibly coaching the baseball team. He wouldn't have worked his ass off, battling his way up through the minor league ranks before finally breaking into the majors, still fighting to that day to keep his spot on the team, to play well, to hopefully get a good contract at the end of the season.

Talking to his... _ex_-boyfriend should be nothing when compared to that.

But this was _Stiles_, a guy who still held a grudge against Fox for canceling _Firefly_, who continuously smack-talked a pitcher who threw a ball a bit too close to Derek's head a year and a half ago, who muttered death threats at some unknown man who ran against his dad for county sheriff when Stiles was ten. He wasn't stubborn only when it came to his loyalty.

And Derek was currently on a very short list of people Stiles didn't like at that moment.

Fuck.

Derek sighed, shoving a hand through his hair. Rip the band-aid off. It was what he needed to do, but for some reason just... wasn't.

Such a pussy.

No. Derek Hale wasn't a pussy. He'd faced the game's toughest pitchers, the angriest crowds, both his sisters on their periods and pissed off...coming out publicly. Not a pussy. He could handle this.

Rip the band-aid off.

Nodding to himself, he yanked his hand out his hair and knocked. Too late to back out now.

Maybe not. He could always turn tail and run to the stairs before the door opened. He had the speed to do it, had stolen thirty bases the previous season.

"Scott, you forget your key again, man?"

Derek froze at the muffled version of Stiles' voice, muscles tensing, heart pounding. Although he wasn't entirely sure if it was due to panic or because he hadn't heard the other man speak in so long and it was fully hitting him just how much he missed the guy. Either way, he was completely entranced by it, unable to move. All he could do was stare, mouth gaping as the door opened and revealed Stiles.

Holy shit. _Stiles_. Fuck Derek had missed him, had missed that pale skin and those moles and that messy hair and those eyes and... and _Stiles_. He'd just flat out missed Stiles.

Stiles, who was staring back at Derek with wide eyes, disbelief parting his lips, shock raising his eyebrows. Stiles, who was still gripping the doorknob, other hand raising to hold the door frame and essentially block Derek's entrance. Stiles, who looked adorably rumpled in threadbare flannel PJ pants and Derek's old UC-Irvine baseball tee, "_Rip 'Em Eaters_" proudly displayed across a lean chest as the gray fabric hung off him.

Stiles, who looked like shit, just as McCall had said.

His pale skin was splotchy, lines across his left cheek, indentations on his skin from laying on something for too long. His eyes were red, lashes clumped together, nose a distinctive crimson hue, all signs he'd been crying—and recently. Dark circles were more noticeable than normal, the usual spark in his whiskey eyes gone, lips chapped. He was obviously upset, not caring about himself, letting his appearance and hygiene fall to the wayside.

All because of Derek.

The athlete swallowed hard, guilt a hard knot in his chest, making it difficult to breathe. He'd done that, had taken the life out the most joyous and energetic person he knew, had dimmed the brightest star in the galaxy. All because he was a dickhead who refused to believe the one person he should trust more than anyone—outside his immediate family, of course.

Not a pussy, but definitely an asshole.

"Derek?" Stiles croaked out, disbelief still audible through a sob-roughened voice. "What're you doing here?"

The older man gripped the back of his neck, wincing, nerves returning. But the door hadn't been slammed in his face and swear words hadn't assaulted his ears, so maybe there was a chance that things would go all right.

"I, uh," he faltered, dropping his hands and shoving both in his jeans pockets. "I wanted to talk to you."

Knuckles went white as Stiles tightened his grip on the door frame, lips pressed into a hard line. He turned his focus away as he nodded, more to himself than as a response, eyes flicking back and forth as he thought things over.

"Talk, huh?" he double-checked, voice still holding that rasp that made Derek's guilt grow until it was constricting his chest.

"Yeah."

More nodding before the student dropped his arm from the door frame and stepped aside, wordlessly inviting the other man in.

A small relieved exhale left Derek, corner of his lips curving up in a barely there smile of gratitude, feet working on automatic as he stepped inside.

McCall and Allison's apartment was a small one-bedroom place, going along with his meager salary and her barely there paycheck. The kitchen and living room were separated by a cluttered counter covered in papers, envelopes, a laptop, various charger chords, and a couple used cups. The living area was in a similar state of disarray, coffee table littered with magazines, another laptop, a baseball glove with a ball stuffed inside as it was broken in. The TV on the right was muted, _MLB Tonight_ showing a live look-in of the Mariners and the As, various video game systems scattered on the floor below with a nest of cables shoved behind them. On the left sat a couch covered by a comforter that'd been thrown aside, a pillow on one end with the telltale concave where someone's head had been laying.

Explained the lines on Stiles' cheek.

Derek pointed to one of the two mismatched armchairs, sitting when Stiles nodded his permission. Elbows on his knees and clasped hands hanging between them, he peered up at the younger man who remained standing in front of the TV. Stiles had his arms wrapped around his torso as though he was holding himself together, shoulders hunched to brace himself for the blows, trying to make himself as small a target as possible. He looked timid, wary, eyes heavily lidded and lips pressed together tightly.

Because of Derek.

Because the last time they'd spoken, the conversation had consisted of false accusations, hurt feelings, utter betrayal, and curse words.

Really, he couldn't blame the smaller man for being nervous and trying to seem even smaller.

"I'm sorry," Derek breathed out, knowing it would probably be in his best interest to just cut to the chase and come out with it. Apologizing right out the gate would set the tone for their convo and help put the other guy more at ease, let him known that he had nothing to be worried about.

But instead of looking comforted and relieved, Stiles' brow furrowed into a confused frown, fingers clutching and releasing the loose fabric of a too big tee at his side. "For sitting?" he questioned earnestly, genuinely puzzled as to the reasons behind the apology.

The athlete shook his head. "For not trusting or believing you."

The confusion left the other guy's face, lips letting out a flat "oh" and remaining in that shape.

"I'm a dumbass," Derek stated, truly believing his insult. Because really, that was the only reason why he hadn't taken Stiles' word when he said he hadn't contacted that photog. Because he was too fucking dumb to recognize the truth when it was staring him right in the face.

"And a jackass," he continued. "And an asshole and, _god_, did I fuck up." His hands were shaking along with his voice, vision blurring slightly as the weight of everything fully settled in and he finally completely realized what he'd done. "I fucked up so bad and I don't know how to fix it."

Stiles' body language shifted with the other man's confession: arms crossed in a more aggressive manner, jaw tensed up, spine straightened with his shoulders held back. "Insulting yourself is a good start," he snarked in a voice that was as hard and as cold as his eyes.

The corner of Derek's lips quirked up in a vague semblance of an amused smirk. "I'm a shithead."

"Yep." His voice was still flat, almost emotionless save for the pissed off edge. He obviously wasn't in a joking mood, wouldn't be softened by humor, meaning the older man would have to switch tactics.

Green eyes flipped down, staring at his own hands, fingers entwined. It wasn't long ago that they'd been tangled up in Stiles', that they'd been laced together with slimmer ones. God, they ached for that again. Hell, his entire body ached from holding himself in place, every muscle tensed as he resisted the urge to walk over and pull the younger man close, to try and just hug everything better. He knew the embrace wouldn't be welcomed, that it was more likely to result in a punched face than a returned hug. Better to keep his hands to himself and continue talking in the hopes of maybe eventually one day being able to touch the male he was longing to hold.

"Kate was the one who sold me out," Derek blurted out while trying to figure out how to lead the conversation there.

Whoops.

Fuck it. It was out there, too late to take back, and really, he should just roll with it.

Stiles' eyebrows shot up in surprise, head rearing back a bit. "Your agent?" he double-checked, sounding like he believed it but at the same time, couldn't.

A lot like how Derek had felt when Allison had told him.

The athlete nodded, scratching his whisker-covered jaw and looking up at his..._ex_. "Yeah," he breathed out, clearing his throat before continuing at a louder volume. "Apparently I wasn't grabbing enough headlines so she decided to get some for me." His hands clenched into fists as they hung between his knees again, still unable to comprehend the fact that she'd actually done that. And for such fucked up reasons, too.

Not that outing him and wrecking his world for _good_ reasons would've made it okay.

Did good reasons for that even exist?

The student snorted, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. His lips were pulled back in an angry sneer, disgust clearly evident on his face, and Derek could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he came up with new and creative insults for her.

"Wow, so nice of her," he muttered sarcastically, venom dripping off his every syllable. "Maybe next time she should just take you to a bar, make sure you have a few too many, and get you on DrunkAthletes-dot-com instead."

"Well, she's fired, so she won't have the chance to do that," Derek informed him nonchalantly, not regretting that decision at all. He doubted he ever would.

"Still a better idea though."

"True. Definitely wouldn't jeopardize my relationship or blow it all to shit."

Another snort from the other man, his entire body rocking with the action, jaw working in aggravation. "No, you did that all by yourself."

The older man winced under the blow as the truth whacked him in the face. "Yeah, I know," he admitted meekly, hands clasped, sad eyes peering up at the other guy. "And I am so. Fucking. Sorry. My mind just got so fucked by the shock of being outed so suddenly and against my will that I totally screwed up one of the best things that has ever happened to me. I was pissed and took it out on the wrong person and."

He paused, mouth gaping, struggling to complete his sentence. He genuinely had no clue where he'd been going with that thought, just knew he needed to explain his side.

Only he couldn't. Because even _he_ had no clue why he'd done what he had. There was no excusing it, no explaining it away. He'd fucked up, plain and simple.

"I don't know why I even considered the _possibility_ of you doing that," he confessed, eyes trained on the carpet between his feet. "But I know how idiotic it was."

"Incredibly, unbelievably, so totally fucking _beyond_ idiotic," Stiles clarified, tone still snark-filled and pissed.

"I know." He swallowed hard, looking up with pleading eyes. "And I swear I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you and proving that I _do_ trust you."

The student nodded slowly as he took the words in, teeth digging into a chapped bottom lip for a long moment. "Blow jobs," he replied solemnly, eyes grave as they met the other man's.

The two words had been spoken so seriously that Derek was actually taken aback by them, head jerking, eyes widening briefly. "What?" he sputtered out, not entirely sure he'd heard the guy right.

"Blow jobs," he repeated in the same serious voice. "It'll take a whole lot of 'em to make it up to me. Rim jobs, too."

The shortstop nodded, dumbfounded, wondering how someone could discuss sex acts in the same way someone else might discuss what stocks to invest in or what safety features they want in their new car. But he was. It was Stiles' version of contract negotiations and Derek was willing to pay up if it meant the younger guy wasn't going anywhere.

"Whatever you want," Derek stated, hands outstretched, palms up in offer. "I'll do whatever it takes, I promise."

Stiles twisted his lips, eyes glancing about the room, seeming to be mulling over other options, thinking of other ways to make his ex pay. "Nah. Blowies and rimmies are it," he concluded with a slight shrug of one shoulder. "Just be glad I'm not a chick and I'm not demanding a four-million dollar ring like Kobe's wife."

A small huff of a laugh blew past the darker haired male's lips, amusement turning up the corners of them. Only for his face to grow serious once again as realization sunk in.

"Wait," he requested, scooting forward to the edge of the armchair. "So. You actually forgive me?"

The younger man unfolded his arms and scratched his jaw, nails rasping against the stubble of a couple day's missed shaving. "Not. _Fully_, no," he clarified, dropping both arms to his sides and adopting a more relaxed stance. "But I _am_ willing to give you a chance to work for it." He tilted his head down, eyes focused on the carpet as he inhaled shakily then let it out more steadily. "I love you," he confessed lowly, fingers of one hand drumming against the clenched ones of the other as he held both in front of his chest. "_Still_ love you. You mean way too much to me for me to just throw away all we had."

Derek inhaled sharply, holding the air in his lungs. Hope had sparked in his chest and he was refusing to give it any oxygen to grow, afraid he'd be incinerated in the flames and left as ashes once again.

Stiles lifted his head and met the other man's eyes with his own shiny ones. "I mean, you know what you did was fucked up, right?" The hope he was feeling was fully evident, from the tone in his voice to the sparkle in his eyes to the way he swallowed hard.

He nodded. "Indescribably fucked up."

"And it's never gonna happen again."

More nodding. "I know you'd never do anything like that so I shouldn't ever accuse you of it. And I also shouldn't take my frustration or anger out on you."

The younger man took a deep breath as he made like a bobblehead, taking it all in and mulling it over. He was silent for a long moment before he finally spoke. "That couch," he began, pointing to the mentioned item and sneering like it'd personally offended him. "Is so fucking uncomfortable. Our bed is _so_ much better."

Derek felt the corner of his lips tug up, hope flaring up and creating a wildfire inside his chest. "_Our_ bed?" he questioned, noting the other man's words.

A similar smirk formed on Stiles' face, faint blush on his cheeks as he shrugged a shoulder in a bashful manner. "Yeah. Assuming I'm still welcome there."

The athlete rose to his feet and took the two steps necessary to close the distance between them. Locking eyes, he held the other man's hands in his, heart pounding in joy and excitement. "Of course," he replied honestly. "It's still ours, everything in _our_ apartment is. And I'm still completely yours for as long as you'll have me."

Stiles' smile grew, releasing the older man's hands to drape his arms over his shoulders, pressing himself closer. "That'll be pretty much forever."

"Forever works for me."

A laugh gusted out against Derek's lips before he pressed them against the other man's in a sweet kiss. He felt his heart beat double its speed, his stomach knotting and flipping, his skin tingling. It was like their first kiss all over again and Derek was barely able to come to grips with the fact that it was real, that it was happening, that Stiles was giving their relationship another shot.

"Saw your tweet, by the way," Stiles informed him once they parted, foreheads pressed together. "Not exactly what I originally said but close enough."

Green eyes were rolled, because of course he'd focus on that rather than the message behind the tweet itself. "Still got the point across though."

"True," the younger man admitted with a thoughtful pout. "So what's up now that you're out and agent-less?"

"Not agent-less," Derek contradicted, wrapping his arms tighter around his boyfriend's—no ex—waist. "I signed with McCall's. She's gonna set up an interview with MLB Network for this weekend and a meeting with You Can Play after the road trip next week. Then it's contract negotiations and a possible extension with the Mets."

A small smile played on Stiles' lips. "Well, I told you before and I still mean it: I'm by your side and I support you no matter what you choose to do."

Derek's grin damn near hurt his face as he kissed his boyfriend again, knowing one-hundred percent without a doubt that Stiles meant what he said.

And he couldn't love the guy any more, even if he tried.


	5. Epilogue

_**A/N: **__The All-Star Game is also property of the MLB and whoever is sponsoring it that year. Target Field is owned by Target (duh) and is used by the Minnesota Twins (also property of the MLB, shockingly enough). Anything else, used with love and sorry I didn't credit you._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Three Months Later...<strong>_

"_Batting third and playing shortstop, from the New York Mets, the top vote-getter, Derek Hale!_"

Derek stepped up from the dugout and jogged towards third base where the National League coaches were waiting, thunderous applause echoing throughout Target Field at the announcement of his name. Making his way down the line, he fist bumped his teammates for the day, ending with the manager near home plate before standing in his designated position beside the number two hitter.

The All-Star Game was being held in Minneapolis that year and despite it being an American League park, Derek still received some of the loudest cheers. He lifted his cap to acknowledge the crowd, knowing it wasn't for him, not entirely; it was for what he stood for.

The first openly bisexual player in the history of Major League Baseball and the MLB All-Star Game.

His eyes scanned the crowd, ending at the section he knew Stiles, his mom, his sisters, and Sheriff Stilinski were all sitting. Dimpled smile on his face, he waved his cap in their direction, feeling as though he could actually hear his boyfriend's cheers over the rest of the crowd.

Not boyfriend. _Fiancé_. Because after Derek had signed an eight-year contract extension back in May, he'd proposed to Stiles, a tackle and countless "yes"s between enthusiastic kisses being his answer.

Cap back on his head, the shortstop kept the grin on his face as the rest of the starting line-up was announced. All-Star or not, Derek was living the dream. And it was all thanks to the chatty, flailing, stubbornly loyal spazz who totally had his back through all of it.


End file.
